Jealous
by GraySnowie
Summary: It's been months after Sherlock and Molly broke up. And despite all this time, neither have really gotten over each other, but Molly is certainly going try. After a heated argument, Molly storms off after Sherlock humiliated her and her date in front of everyone. Not too long after, Molly wanders in danger. How will she handle it? Sherlolly
1. It Started With a Fight

The doors of the Italian restaurant opened with a bang with Molly storming out of them, fuming with her hands balled into tight fists and eyes on fire. Sherlock calmly followed her outside, pulling his collar up at the heavy wind. Molly whipped her head around to glare at him.

"How could you do that? You embarrassed us, ME in front of everyone!" she shouted at him.

"Molly really, I was just saving you the trouble and pain. He's no good for you, it would never work out," Sherlock replied with 100 percent confidence that he was right.

"That's for me to decide," Molly said through clenched teeth. "I don't need you spitting out your awful deductions about everyone I date. Let me figure them out on my own. I'm sick of you getting all up in my business. What were you even doing at that restaurant?"

"I was on a case," he said a little too quickly.

"A case? Really?" she hissed sarcastically. "Then where's the victim? Or suspect or whatever it is. Sherlock, you were there for _me_. What I can't figure out is why."

Sherlock's eyes softened as he looked at her. Could she really not see?

"I still get jealous," he said with quiet clarity.

Molly looked into his sincere, green-blue eyes and some of her anger faded away. Some. She was still pretty pissed off.

"What do you mean? You're the one who broke up with _me._ " There was a short silence, each of them staring at each other, figuring out what to say next. The wind blew a strand of Molly's chestnut hair into her face and Sherlock absentmindedly tucked it behind her ear. She didn't move, or even blink at his touch, she just stared up expectantly at him, waiting for him to say something.

"I left you to protect you," he mumbled, placing his hand on her rosy, cold cheek. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, remembering every single time she was put in danger because of Sherlock's cases or his enemies. But despite all that, she still wanted to stay with him.

"Sherlock, I don't need protection. And that's not your decision to make, it's ours." She brushed his hand away and walked away, leaving him to stand alone.

A walk. A walk was all she needed. A walk would cool her steam off. She had travelled a while before she noticed how cold the day was. She wrapped her arms around herself. It was pretty chilly and the wind was relentless. His words replayed in her mind. _I still get jealous._ One foot in front of the other. Keep walking. Scenery passed her by and the lightness of day was gradually fading. _I should get home._ Molly looked around. Her heart rate quickened. She must have walked pretty far, lost deep in thought and fury, because she had no idea where she was. There was also no one around. Molly turned around and did an entire 360, her eyes desperately searching for a familiar landmark or a familiar face. _Okay…I'll just keep walking and see if I see anything I recognize._ Molly straightened her back and walked straight ahead.

* * *

Sherlock checked his watch again for the umpteenth time. He paced outside the door of Molly's apartment, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. He still missed her dearly. _It's for her own good,_ he thought sternly. But he was having his doubts. Despite all the obstacles their relationship had to hurdle over, Molly always made it out safe and sound. But being in an open relationship, it was clear to his enemies that Molly was his weak spot. And after she was landed in a hospital after being held hostage by a convict on the run, he decided that their love for each other was not worth putting her life in danger.

He had been waiting for hours; he wanted to apologize for his behavior. Even though they weren't dating anymore, he still wanted to be on good terms. It was her life, and she could date whomever she wanted, no matter how poor her choices were. He just wanted her to be happy. _She was happy with you._ He shook his head. No, he wanted her to be happy and _safe._ But despite his decision to let her go, he still got jealous. He chuckled lightly at himself. A few years ago, he would have never done something so ridiculous as to give an _apology._ Saying sorry meant you cared, and caring was disadvantage. After all, sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. That's what he thought anyway, before he met Molly. He checked his watch again. It had been hours since their fight. He had already considered the possibility that she had gone to some bar to get drunk and then passed out, but Molly was a responsible drinker; she always at least made it home first before passing out. He glanced at his watch again. It was past ten, and Molly had work tomorrow. Molly always made it home by nine and was in bed by around ten thirty or so if she had to work the next day. He left his place by the door of Molly's flat and made his way to the street, raising his hand to hail a cab.

* * *

Molly quickened her pace, nervously looking around for any sign of life. Distant footfalls echoed a distance behind her and she looked back hopefully. Her hopes sank like the Titanic. There were a few dark, hunched-over figures. Molly's heartbeat and pace quickened. They didn't look very friendly. She turned corner after corner, trying to lose the two figures, but they relentlessly continued following her, sensing her every turn and movement like bloodhounds. She glanced back. They were about 20 meters behind her and she was still hopelessly lost.

Wait….weren't there two of them? Molly turned back to her front and broke into a run. She could hear their heavy footfalls behind her. She turned right into a street and ran smack into the second man. The force of the impact made her fall back into the pavement. Rough hands grabbed her and she screamed, kicking and clawing her way out from the man's limbs. His companion caught up and tackled her. She tumbled to the ground with a yelp, but immediately tried to get back up and fight. She wasn't going to go down so easy. Molly raised a fist to throw a punch when she felt a sharp sting in her neck. Her muscles slackened and the hand that injected her with the needle picked up as effortlessly as if she were merely a lifeless doll. Her mind slowly faded to unconsciousness, but she could still distantly hear the two men laughing.

"She put up quite a fight."

"Cam will be pleased."

* * *

The fog around her head cleared and the mumble of voices in the vehicle became clear enough for her to pick out every word. Molly was uncomfortably lying on her side, a gag in her mouth and her hands and legs were tied. She was lying in a fetus position, facing the trunk door. The two men at the front of the car were talking about the sports games last night. Molly wiggled her hands to get a feel of the rope. They weren't too tight or well done; her kidnappers must have thought the drug on her would last longer. She could pull her hand out just enough so that her ring was against it. She moved her hand, twisting it back and forth so that her sharp diamond ring would cut against the rope. The car abruptly stopped, and Molly froze in place, afraid that they noticed what she was doing or that they had arrived at their destination, wherever that may be. She held her breath, every one of her muscles tense with anxiety. The van lurched and resumed driving. She let go of the breath she had been holding. It was just a stop light. She continued to wiggle her finger, slowly but steadily sawing through the tough rope. Only a few minutes passed, but it felt like hours to Molly. She finally got the rope loose enough and it slipped off her wrists. She rolled over and then put herself in a crouching position. The back of the trunk was locked, so escaping was not an option. Her eyes quickly darted around the van, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon within reach. She smiled, having found what she was looking for, and reached for something in the gloom.

* * *

Sherlock went back to the restaurant where he and Molly argued. With hands in his pockets and coat collar turned up, he followed the path where she left. He kept walking at a comfortable speed for at least half an hour, sure of the path he was following, until he heard sirens in the distance. He turned a corner, speeding up his pace as the saw the bright light of an ambulance and police cars down the street. Sherlock started running to the commotion, worse case scenarios running through his mind. _Please don't be Molly. Please don't be Molly. Why did I leave her all alone?_ Dread filled his chest as he got close enough to see a familiar little black dress and chestnut ponytail.

Molly stood with her arms crossed; her usually neat tresses looked disheveled and tangled. Well, really all of her looked to match her ponytail. She had bruises and cuts adorning her body like jewelry.

"And then what happened?" asked the Lestrade. Sherlock finally arrived, but he hid behind an ambulance, listening to every word transpiring between Molly and the officer.

"I took the rope in my hands, you know, the one I was tied up with, and I reached over the seat of the driver and wrapped it around his neck, pulling as tight as I could. He let go of the wheel and then the car spun out of control, I mean, you can't try and stop someone from choking you and drive at the same time. And the other man in the passenger seat, he was trying to attack me. I switched the rope choking the driver to only one hand and took my stiletto and stabbed the man in the passenger seat."

The officer nodded and rapidly jotted down every word she said. Sherlock smiled to himself. That was his Molly. And being the lover of the world's only consulting detective certainly helped toughen her up.

"The car finally crashed into a tree, and I was thrown back. Those two men got the brunt of the force, sitting in the front and all. I crawled to the front and took their pulses. They were still alive. I found my phone and called the police. And that's when you guys showed up." Molly shifted her weight to one leg and pulled her arms tighter to herself. "Can I go home now? I'm fine. And besides, I'm a pathologist; I can treat my own injuries if anything arises." Lestrade smiled kindly at her.

"I'm sorry. Just protocol Molly. Wait here a moment. We also have to get you to the station, and figure out who this Cam is." He walked away and went to his car to talk with his fellow policemen.

Sherlock emerged from where he was standing in the darkness. He walked up behind her and leaned down so that he mouth was just next to her right ear.

"I'm impressed. You did quite a number on those two men. I saw them in the back of the ambulance."

Molly jumped in surprise. She whipped her head around, her ponytail brushing Sherlock's face in the process. She relaxed when she realized that it was just Sherlock in the dark.

"Oh. Um, yeah. Well it was mostly the car accident that harmed them. Which, I guess I caused." Her bad mood seemed to have disappeared. She just seemed exhausted.

"Bad business with all that kidnapping." Sherlock noticed her shivering and took off his coat to wrap around her. He took her hands in his and gently blew on them. "Are you okay?"

She looked back up at him with sad eyes, reminiscing in the past. "I'm fine." She slowly slid her hands out of his and tucked them back in her pocket. "I can take care of myself." She took a step back, and made to walk away when Sherlock quickly reached and pulled her in an embrace. He had something to say, and he couldn't just let her walk away.

"I know you can take care of yourself. I'm proud of you, and….and I love you. I'm sorry I doubted you Molly. You're not weak, and you don't need my protection. I can't dictate your life; your decisions are up to you to make." He pulled back slightly from the embrace to look deeply into her eyes. "I'm sorry." Molly saw the unspoken question in his eyes that came with the heartfelt apology: will you take me back?

She smiled. "I forgive you." She opened her mouth to say what she wanted to get off her chest, but at that moment Lestrade came.

"Molly, we're ready for your questioning." He motioned toward the police car. Molly smiled at him and then looked back to Sherlock, an apology in her eyes.

"See you later," Sherlock said softly. Molly flashed him a quick smile before heading off with Lestrade. He felt a weight that he didn't know he had being lifted when she had said she had forgiven him, but still he longed for her touch and her companionship. He watched her walk away for a moment; he watched until the back of her dress blended with the night and she was no more. Then he turned the other direction, pulled up his collar, and walked home to 221b Baker Street.

* * *

 **Hello everybody! Hope you enjoyed. Not quite sure if this will be just a one-shot or if I will continue it. Should I? Anyways, tell me what you think and review! (Also, polite constructive criticism would be helpful)**


	2. Be My Best Man

**Hello everyone! So I'm continuing this story. The plot line is going to loosely follow the plot of season 3 of Sherlock. I own nothing from the show. Also, thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, or followed. Your support means a lot to me! Chapters should be posted around once a week.**

* * *

Molly fumbled around in her purse for her keys. Her fingers brushed against her lipstick, extra bobby pins, hair ties, phone, and wallet. But there were no keys to be found. Molly groaned. Her eyes were drooping and she was about to fall over from pure exhaustion. Was this really happening right now? _Oh! My spare key,_ Molly remembered. She stood on tiptoe and reached for her wind chimes. She overturned the widest and largest one and caught the key that fell out in her palm. A few months back, she stuffed some cotton balls into the chime to prevent the key from falling out. Even if someone stood directly under the chimes, they still wouldn't be able to see the white cotton balls because light didn't really enter there, and so it was a safe place to put an extra key. Putting it under a mat or in the soil of a nearby potted plant was way overused. She was even a bit proud of herself for coming up with the idea.

Molly jabbed at the key hole repeatedly, not really paying attention to where it was being aimed, until it finally slid through the key hole. She twisted the key and pushed against the door. After stepping inside, she kicked off her heels. Something warm and furry brushed against her ankles.

"Hello, Toby. I'll get your dinner in a moment. Sorry to keep you waiting." Molly was about to go to her kitchen, when she remembered to lock her door. And deadbolt it. No matter how tired she was, she would never forget to do that. Being with Sherlock taught her how to be cautious. She glided into the kitchen, checking the time on the digital clock in her living room as she walked past. 3:32. Gah. Why couldn't Lestrade have just let her gone home? She opened the bottom cupboard by the sink and pulled out a can of cat food.

Toby followed her into the kitchen, his tail restlessly flicking the air. He sat by one of the legs of the kitchen table, watching Molly's every move, silently urging her to hurry up; he was starving. He meowed to make an emphasis. After forever, she successfully opened the food with a can opener and placed the meal in front of the anxious cat. Molly drifted into her hallway, leaving her feline noisily munching in the other room. Now, turn right into her bathroom to take a shower, or turn left into the warm comfort of her room? She just wanted to sleep, but she was filthy. Molly had dirt and gravel on her from when the men tackled her to the ground, and she had both their blood and her blood on her body. She didn't want to track that into her clean, spotless sheets. But oh well. She could always clean them later. She turned left into her bedroom and flung herself into the bed, falling asleep before she even hit the blankets.

* * *

Molly's eyes snapped open to the annoying blare of her alarm. She smacked her hand on her bedside side table until it finally found the snooze button and the ceaseless beeping finally stopped. She didn't need to go to work today; her boss would hopefully understand.

Molly naturally woke up and glanced at the time. 11:42. The first thing she thought was that Toby's breakfast was late. She got up, almost stepping on the dark cat waiting by her bed. She walked into the kitchen with Toby on her heels and then got him his food. She turned on the kettle for tea and then dragged herself into the bathroom.

After a short struggle of getting her dress off, she stepped into the shower. Heat from the steaming water spread into her sore body, filling every crevice with warmth. Molly's scrubbing became faster as the sleepiness faded away. She washed away the dirt and blood off her and watched as it flowed down the drain. If only her worries could flow down the drain too. Why was she kidnapped? Even after hours of interrogation, the two men who kidnapped her refused to say anything about who the heck Cam was or what their purpose was. She just hoped that this "Cam" would just leave her alone now that he failed in whatever he was trying to accomplish. She had a feeling he wouldn't, but she could always hope. She turned off the shower head and stepped out feeling fresh and rejuvenated. She could worry about this later. Today, she just wanted to relax. She pulled on an old faded sweater and pajama pants.

Molly poured herself her tea and then sat down in the living room. She switched on her television as Toby pounced onto her lap, settling himself there and then purring contentedly.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes slowly walked into the hospital room, his umbrella trailing after him. He gave a contemptuous look to the two men handcuffed to their beds.

"Hitting a woman. How disdainful," he said scornfully. Mycroft reached behind him and locked the door, and then he drew the blinds, but not before the men in the beds caught a glimpse of a few guards positioning themselves at the door. Mycroft stepped to the bedside and withdrew a file from under his gray coat.

"Now let's see what we have here…Kurt Amsterdam and Kevin Blackbourne." Kurt gave a nervous gulp and licked his dry lips. How did this man find out who they were? They didn't give any information to the authorities.

Mycroft continued, retrieving another item from his pockets: a syringe. Mycroft pulled on a dull, white glove and flexed his fingers in an intimidating manner. "Now, we can do this the hard way, or the easy way. The choice is yours."

* * *

Mycroft left the room a few hours later a bit unsatisfied. The two men gave in quite easily after a few doses of the potent drug his private medical team had been developing. He quite was looking forward to having some more fun. And the information the two men gave him didn't give him much to go on: they were blackmailed into kidnapping Molly. It made sense with their backgrounds, and so Mycroft concluded that it was believable. Not only that, but they didn't even know the real name of who they were working for. They only knew that he went by "Cam".

Mycroft waved the security positioned at the door off and he walked down to his sleek, black ride awaiting him. The chauffeur opened the door for Mycroft, and sensing his distress, the driver poured him a glass of bourbon. Mycroft gave a polite, forced smile and graciously sipped the alcohol. He settled himself into the plush seats as the vehicle started driving. Mycroft leaned his head onto his arm and started getting into one of his deep thought sessions.

Now who would target Molly? The girl wasn't even capable of being a threat to a rabbit. The only reason people ever went after Molly was to get to Sherlock. But they weren't even together anymore. He sighed. But anyone who paid even the slightest bit of attention could clearly see that Sherlock and Molly still loved each other, despite being apart for seven months, 23 days, and –Mycroft checked his watch- 14 hours. He really thought they would be back together by now. The car pulled up in the driveway of his mansion. The driver got out and opened the door for Mycroft. Anthea, his assistant, stood outside, waiting for Mycroft while busily texting on her phone.

"Upgrade her surveillance status. Grade 3, active," Mycroft ordered as he walked up to his front door.

Anthea's black kitten heels clicked on the cement as she followed him. "Sorry, sir. Who's status?"

"Molly Hooper."

* * *

Molly retrieved her phone from the counter where she left it the other night. 6 new messages. She had a feeling she knew who they were all from.

SH (2:29am): Did you make it home safely?

SH (2:34am): Answer me or I'll have to call Mycroft in.

SH (2:46am): He informs me that you're still at the station and he'll be personally monitoring your trip back to your apartment.

SH (3:30am): I've just received news you safely made it past the threshold of your doorway. Good night.

SH (11:00am): It's 11 o'clock already. I checked the security footage, and it seems you have not left the apartment, which means you're sleeping in and taking the day off.

SH (11:48am): You slept in what you wore last night, too exhausted to shower or even take off your clothes. You bathed this morning and decided to wear your horrendous brown green sweater. After making your tea, you decided to settle into the couch and watch some telly with Toby curled in your lap. You just realized you forgot your phone somewhere, most likely the kitchen counter (you left it there when you fed Toby last night, you never forget, no matter how late), and you're reading all your messages now.

Molly laughed. He was right on point, as always. She texted a reply.

MH: I did make it home safely, thank you for your concern. Your deductions were all correct. And for your information, this sweater may be a tad unattractive, but it's REALLY comfortable.

Molly resumed watching the telly and stroked Toby's dark fur while waiting for a reply. She didn't have to wait too long. She laughed at his reply as she read it. No one could infuriate her like Sherlock did, but no one could cheer her up the way he did either.

* * *

Sherlock, adorned with pajamas and safety goggles, stood in the kitchen and smiled to himself as he read Molly's texts. John stepped into the room and placed a cup of coffee on the table for Sherlock.

"Texting Molly?" John asked.

Sherlock slipped the phone into his pocket and reached for the cup of coffee John had just set down. He took a noisy sip, tasting the beverage. Ugh. John forgot the sugar. "Why would you say that?"

"You were smiling. You never smile at your phone unless it's something Molly related," John pointed out with a smirk.

Sherlock resumed what he was doing before texting Molly, and that was an experiment. He took some nearby prongs and picked up an eyeball with it, slowly moving the eye closer to the lit Bunsen burner to the right of him.

After a few moments, John cleared his throat. "So Sherlock, you busy?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Just occupying myself. Sometimes it's so hard not smoking." He frowned. Especially now that Molly wasn't there anymore to help him with his cravings. The eyeball slipped out from the prong's handles and fell right into the mug of coffee John made for Sherlock. Oh well. It wasn't good coffee anyway.

"Mm-hmm. Mind if I interrupt?" John asked.

Sherlock put down his prongs and gestured to a seat. "Be my guest."

John pulled out a chair and sat himself down. "So," he began. "The big question."

"Mmm."

John folded his hands and placed it on the table in front of him. "The best man," he stated.

"The best man?" asked Sherlock confusedly.

"What do you think?" asked John hopefully.

Sherlock didn't hesitate to reply. "Billy Kincaid."

"Sorry, what?" John stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Billy Kincaid, the Camden Garrotter. Best man I ever knew. Vast contributions to charity, never disclosed," Sherlock quick-fired. John frowned. Sherlock continued. "Personally managed to save three hospitals from closure and ran the best and safest children's homes in north England." John rubbed his fingers over his eyes. Sherlock grimaced briefly. "Yes, every now and again there'd be some garrottings, but stacking up on the lives saved _against_ the garrottings, on balance I'd say-"

John interrupted him. "For my wedding! For me. I need a best man."

"Oh, right."

"Maybe not a garrotter," John suggested hopefully.

"Gavin?"

"Who?"

"Gavin Lestrade? He's a man, and good at it."

"It's Greg," John said exasperatedly. "And he's not my best friend."

"Oh, Mike Stamford, I see. Well, he's nice, um, though I'm not sure how well he'd cope with all-"

"No!" John interrupted again. Good gracious. Could Sherlock really be this dense? John recalled Sherlock's lack of knowledge on the solar system. Yes, he could be spectacularly ignorant about some things. "Mike's great, but he's not my best friend."

Sherlock stared at John thoughtfully, waiting for John to say something more because he really couldn't think of another friend to suggest.

"Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life."

Sherlock pulled a dubious face. "Well…."

"No! It _is._ " John pointed a finger at Sherlock. "It _is,_ and I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world."

"Yes."

John nodded. Finally, Sherlock got it! Wait no. He stared at Sherlock's face for a long moment, and concluded that Sherlock was still quite oblivious. "So, Mary Morstan…"

"Yes." Sherlock continued staring at John, patiently waiting for further information.

John sighed. "And…." John stared at Sherlock for a moment longer, waiting to see if the puzzle pieces would finally click in that brilliant mind of his. They didn't. "You."

Sherlock stood there, blinking rapidly. He made not a sound, nor a move. Sherlock had completely frozen; he stared blankly in John's direction but wasn't really looking at him. John impatiently tapped his foot. "Sherlock," John said a bit worriedly. The silence dragged on, and Sherlock's blank stare continued. "That's getting a bit scary now," John said with a nervous chuckle.

Sherlock's eyes refocused on John after he took a deep breath. He narrowed his eyes slightly. "So, in fact…you, you mean-"

"Yes," John replied, relieved that Sherlock had finally come back to Earth.

"I'm your…" John nodded. "Best…"

"Man," John finished, at the exact time Sherlock said "friend?"

John smiled. "Yeah. Of course you are. Course you're my best friend."

Sherlock smiled back, and without looking down, he reached for his mug of coffee and sipped the dark liquid. John stared at him with interest. Sherlock did know that there was an eyeball in there right?

"Well how was that?"

Sherlock lipped his lips, thinking for a moment. "Surprisingly okay."

"So you'll have to make a speech of course."

Sherlock smiled grimly. "Of course."

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to leave a review! I love those :) And also, polite, constructive criticism would be welcome and helpful.**


	3. Red Peonies

**Summer is finally upon us, and that means...more updates! Thank you to all who have supported me. Continue and enjoy the story.**

* * *

Molly was closely watched by Mycroft and his team after the kidnapping incident. Security cameras all around the city watched her safe passage to and from work, and they continued to diligently watch her on her casual nights out. After a few weeks, the tight security began to let up a bit. But still, members of Sherlock's homeless network discreetly followed her everywhere she went. None of this went unnoticed by Molly of course. And although the scrutinizing attention sometimes annoyed her, she was glad to know that Sherlock and Mycroft cared for her well-being to that extent, and it made her worry less to know that she was safer.

One day, Molly came home from work and stepped into her apartment. Her concern and anxiety of who Cam was slipped away day by day as nothing eventful happened in her life. Molly casually strolled into her living room and she stopped in her tracks when she saw red peonies in a vase sitting her living room table. She grimaced. Red peonies were her dad's favorite flowers, and her most painful memory of them was at her dad's funeral, where they were scattered about on every surface in her father's memory. Set right next to the vase were her set of keys that she lost weeks ago. Molly's palms began to sweat. Perhaps someone found them and sent them to her with flowers? As she cautiously moved closer she saw that the vase was set on some paper, with its corners sticking out from underneath. She gently picked up the vase and saw that under it was a picture of her deceased father.

Goosebumps ran along Molly's arms and she set the vase of flowers down quickly for fear that it would slip from her sweaty grasp and then shatter into a million pieces on the floor. She wiped her palms on her pants, feeling as if she just touched something filthy. Toby trotted into the room, sensing Molly's distress. He pawed at her knees until she finally picked him up and cradled him in her arms. Her anxiety went away some as she stroked the dark fur of her cat.

Whoever set the flowers on her table wanted to make a point. They wanted to show Molly that they could get in and out of her home with ease, and that they could swipe something as close to her as her keys without her noticing. She had a gut feeling that whoever was behind this was also behind her kidnapping: Cam. But why would they remind Molly of her father's death? It was, after all, several years ago. Molly's petting of Toby became more frantic. But what if they knew? What if they knew the true circumstances surrounding her father's death? What if whoever sent the flowers knew that her father didn't die of cancer, like the record said? She shook her head furiously. No, it wasn't possible. No one could have known. Doubts began creeping into her mind. Unless…the person who performed the autopsy. A sick, crushing feeling rose in Molly's chest. She paid him to put cancer on the cause of death. The pathologist who performed the autopsy could have told someone…

Molly could feel Toby's calming purrs resonating in her arms and she held him even closer. There was no proof. There _is_ no proof that her father died from anything other than cancer. His body was in the ground and too many years have gone by for anyone to even consider reevaluating the cause of death.

Guilt crept up on Molly and attacked her like a rabid dog. She shouldn't have done it. She should've waited a bit longer; if she did, maybe her father would be alive today. She sunk to the ground in tears. Whoever Cam was, he knew the truth about her father's death. She didn't know what he wanted, but she did know that she was helpless to do anything about it.

* * *

Mycroft slammed his glass down on his desk. He pressed his fingers against his temples and took a deep breath, trying to calm his anger. He knew exactly who Cam was. What surprised him was how long it took him to figure it out. What infuriated him was the fact that he could not take any action against Cam. Mycroft picked up his phone to text Anthea to set up a meeting between him and Cam. He needed to set some things straight.

* * *

Molly hurriedly dumped the peonies into the dumpster near her apartment. She had already burned the picture of her father, and she stuffed her keys into the back of a sock drawer in her room. Molly knew she was being a bit irrational, flowers were just flowers. If anyone came over, they wouldn't be the slightest bit suspicious. She could also just say that she just found her lost keys under some furniture; not that anybody knew she lost them in the first place. And as for the photo, well, who didn't have photos of their father in their home?

But despite all these objects being harmless to others' eyes, they were an awful reminder to Molly of Cam and what she did to her dad. It was best that they were gone and out of sight. She considered telling the Holmes brothers about this, but again, the objects weren't even the slightest bit threatening. How could she call Mycroft, the man who practically was the British government, and tell him to investigate some _flowers?_ Sherlock and Mycroft would see how nervous she was about something as simple as _flowers_ , and that would lead to questions, and more questions, and she really wasn't good at lying. Of course, before destroying all the evidence, she placed all the objects on her table exactly as she had found them, and took several photos of it at different angles.

Molly brushed off her hands and left the dim alleyway. She had already made sure that no members of the homeless network were following her, and she took caution to avoid the cameras of the government. Molly thought for a moment while walking back to her place. Perhaps it wasn't so smart to go into a dark alleyway without the watchful eyes or protection of the Holmes brothers.

Molly turned a corner when suddenly a dark figure crashed into her. Molly let out a small yelp as she fell sideways. The arms of the dark figure enclosed her and caught her before she fell.

"Molly?" asked a familiar voice.

Molly smiled as she recognized the man as Sherlock. "Sherlock!"

"What are you doing here?" Disapproval and worry sounded from his deep,baritone voice. What was she doing in a dark alley all alone? She should have at least have had someone accompany her; there were people after her for unknown reasons.

Oh no. Questions. "I was just-" Molly stuttered. "Taking a walk." _Terrible excuse_ , she scolded herself. "And I had to toss something in the dumpster." _That's better._

"Right," Sherlock said with a tone that clearly conveyed that he didn't believe her. He narrowed his eyes at her but didn't say anything more.

"So what are you doing here?" Molly asked in an attempt to change the direction of the conversation into something more casual.

"Just investigating a case. Nothing of use here though. I'm done." Of course he made plans to later come back and investigate whatever it was that Molly was doing here. Sherlock gestured to the exit of the alley. "Coffee?" he offered.

"Sure," Molly said, glad to finally be able to leave the alley.

* * *

Sherlock and Molly sat at in an outside table at a café, quietly sipping their hot coffee. They had the air of a comfortable silence around them, simply enjoying each other's company without needing empty conversation to fill the air and watched the people walk by. Molly sat with her legs crossed, at ease leaning back in her chair, enjoying the interesting quirks and uniqueness of every individual that passed them in the streets. Sherlock sat with his elbows on the arm chairs, deducing any passerby, looking for clues and suspicion.

Sherlock was glad to be able to enjoy this with Molly. It had taken a while for them to move out of their angry, post-breakup phase, and into their finally friends again phase. Of course, he still wanted Molly back, but since she didn't mention anything about it after he had confessed his feelings outside the ambulance the day of her kidnapping, he had assumed his feelings were unreturned and that Molly just wanted a friend. Sherlock would gratefully accept anything Molly wanted him to be, whether it be friend, lover, or brother, just as long as he could be near her.

Molly had gotten exceedingly good at hiding things, especially since the time that Sherlock faked his death, but looking at her now, Sherlock could see that something was bothering her, despite her current nonchalant attitude. While they were together, Molly would come to him about anything and everything, even if it was just boring useless information about her routine. He would never have to ask about anything because Molly would tell him before he would even have the chance to ask. But this, this hesitance, reluctance to tell him, was this what friends was being like? Because this lack of closeness and openness was infuriating. He would now have to go through and deduce her like one of his clients in order to figure out what she was hiding.

And this secret of Molly's, whatever it was, made Sherlock feel an emotion he didn't feel often: fear. He wasn't scared of what the content of the secret was, but the fact that Molly was hiding it from him. What did this mean for their relationship? What if they could never again reach the same level of closeness they had when they were dating? This thought made Sherlock fill with dread and regret. He should have never let Molly go, and he should have never underestimated her and her capabilities. He missed her more than he cared to admit. He missed coming home to her and finding her baking or cooking. She was the beautiful stability in his life, and without her constant presence, his life felt jumbled and confusing. His thought process was always better and clearer with her around.

Sherlock dazed from the real world while he was lost in thought. He stared emptily at the people passing them on the street, and he looked up in surprise when Molly tapped him on the shoulder.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" he said, regaining his composure.

"I have to go now. Bye, see you soon."

"Catch. You. Later," Sherlock smiled at her until she turned and left. He then steepled his hands under his chin, closed his eyes, resumed his train of thought, and resumed his façade of being okay.

* * *

Molly shrugged on her coat and stuffed hands into the pockets. That was nice. Molly thought about the words Sherlock told her weeks ago for some time: I love you. It wasn't the "we're friends, I love you". It was the _I love you_ I love you. They could've gotten back together at any point after that confrontation, but Molly decided against it. She forgave him, but the fact that Sherlock thought he could dictate her life and her decisions wasn't what a relationship was supposed to be. A relationship was about being equals, being able to lean on each other and depend on the other. Sherlock's enemies were her enemies, and vice versa. It was her privilege to handle cases together with Sherlock, and no matter what happened, she knew that she would always make it out okay. Sherlock and his cases were a constant source of excitement for Molly in her otherwise dull life. When Sherlock said that they needed to end it for her safety, Molly was beyond furious. She would trade limbs and organs to be with Sherlock, and she thought he knew that. He told her to go find someone dull, normal, and most importantly _safe._ Safeness and health didn't guarantee happiness, Sherlock did. Maybe they could get back together sometime in the future, but certainly not now.

Molly continued walking, thinking deeply about her problems, and braced herself for the upcoming east wind.

* * *

 **The east wind...sound familiar? Anyways, please review! I love reading what you guys have to say. Also, polite constructive criticism would be helpful and welcome, as always.**


	4. I Can Tell When You're Lying

**Happy Friday! Little summary: John has asked Sherlock to be his best man. Meanwhile, someone has informed Molly that they know her dirty little secret, one she thought she had buried years ago. Enjoy the story. I do not own anything from Sherlock.**

* * *

"And what exactly are you planning to do with Molly Hooper?" Mycroft asked the man seated across from him.

"I don't plan to do anything. I just want her to know that I have the information."

Mycroft leaned forward in his seat. "And what is it, exactly, that you have on her?'

The man with spectacles laughed drily. "That, my dear Mycroft, is for me to know, and for you to find out."

* * *

After Molly left Sherlock at the café, he closed his eyes and resumed his thoughts. He opened his eyes a few moments later, and was surprised to find that what he thought had only been mere moments was actually hours. It was bright daylight when Molly left him, but now the world was the cold blue-gray shade that meant that the sun was about to go down.

Sherlock got up from his table and walked a few blocks to the alleyway where he bumped into Molly earlier that day. He strided over to the dumpster and looked around for anything Molly might have thrown away. He looked quickly, for the sun was going down and it would be more difficult to find what he was searching for without light. He picked something up in the gloom. A broken vase filled with red peonies. Sherlock picked up a flower curiously. The vase must have smashed when she tossed it in the trash. The reason he suspected that this was what she threw away was because judging from the tracks in the alleyway, no one had been here since Molly and him were here. The flowers were also relatively fresh, so they must have been recently thrown out.

Sherlock threw the poppy back into the dumpster and left the alleyway. Poppies. Why poppies? And why was Molly so nervous about throwing flowers away? And the fact that she had to throw them away in a dumpster in a remote alleyway was also suspicious. Sherlock still had one more thing to do to be one hundred percent sure that the poppies were hers.

* * *

Sherlock went to Molly's apartment in the middle of the night. He picked at her window until it was finally unlocked, and he quietly climbed inside. As he was descending, he knocked over a nearby vase sitting on a table. Sherlock quickly caught it before it could hit the floor, but not before some of the water in it fell out. Oh well. Perhaps Toby would get blamed for that. Sherlock stood still for a moment, assessing whether his intrusion was noticed. Sherlock's eyes roamed the room until they found another pair staring at him. It was just Toby. Sherlock made his way over to Molly's living room table and he crouched beside it. He swept a lone finger across the surface of the glass and held it to his eyes in the moonlight. Dust and pollen resided on his finger. Sherlock stood up, satisfied that he got the answer he was looking for. He climbed back out the window and carefully shut it.

* * *

Every day since the red poppy incident, Molly always approached her front door after work on high alert. The process would never change. She would almost silently unlock her door, and then gently open it. She would cautiously go inside and just stand, barely even stepping foot in her own home. She would stay still, looking all around her apartment for signs that anything was changed. After her assessment, she would then take off her shoes and close the front door. Molly was even more on edge for the fact that one morning, Molly stepped into her living room and found a wet spot in her carpet near the window. That meant that someone had broken in the previous night through that particular window and knocked over the vase. That day, Molly ran around her home frantically trying to find any sign of the person who had broken in, but nothing seemed to have changed. Even so, finding that wet spot unnerved her, and she was sure to always better lock her windows.

Molly's routine didn't change much. She would usually just go to the kitchen and set Toby's dinner and then make tea. She drank a lot of tea nowadays. She found that the only things that could calm her jumbled nerves were tea, her cat, and Sherlock.

Molly lay in bed awake this particular night, thinking deeply. She spent years trying to bury this little secret in the back of her mind, and she was even sure that nobody knew about it or would ever find out. The day she found those red poppies in her living room changed her life. Molly lived in constant fear, afraid that her secret would be revealed to everyone she knew. Everyone would hate her, and she would even go to jail. Molly gulped at the thought. That's right; she would go to _jail_ if people knew what she had done.

Feeling a tingling sensation in her bladder, Molly got up to go to the bathroom. She had to do this quite often because of all the tea she consumed in an attempt to relax. Molly finished her business in the bathroom, and while she was up, she went to recheck that the doors and windows were locked. One could never be too sure.

Molly crawled back in her bed and resumed her train of thought. With the reemergence of the secret, her guilt also came back. Guilt that carved a hole in her chest and branded shame on Molly's conscience. Molly whispered into the darkness of the air, hoping that the dead could hear her.

"I'm sorry dad. I should have never done it."

* * *

John, Mary, and Sherlock all sat in the living room of 221b Baker Street, busily making preparations for the wedding. Sherlock shuffled through the guest list.

"Need to work on your half of the church, Mary. Looking a bit thin."

Mary smiled at him. "Ah, orphan's lot. Friends, that's all I have. Lots of friends."

Sherlock nodded and scribbled something down. "Schedule the organ music to begin at precisely 11:48."

"But the rehearsal's not for another two weeks. Just calm down," Mary said.

"Calm? I _am_ calm. I'm _extremely_ calm," Sherlock replied, clearly showing that he was, in fact, not calm.

"Let's get back to the reception, come on."

They walked back to the table, scoured with invitations and cards. Mary handed Sherlock one. "John's cousin. Top table?"

Sherlock glanced down at the RSVP card. "Hmm. Hates you. Can't even bear to think about you."

Mary looked up at him. "Seriously?"

"Second class post, cheap card." He sniffed it and grimaced. "Bought at a petrol station. Look at the stamp: three attempts at licking. She's obviously unconsciously retaining saliva."

"Ah." Mary looked over her shoulder to John. "Let's stick her by the toilets."

"Oh yes," Sherlock agreed.

A buzz sounded from Mary's pocket. She took it out and slightly frowned when she saw who it was from: Janine Hawkins.

JH: So how's the wedding planning going? I get to be maid-of-honor, right?

Mary's eyebrow twitched as she read the message. She quickly texted a reply.

MM: It's going fine. And yes, of course.

JH: Great. It's only right, seeing as I'm your best friend, and I'm the only one who knows all your secrets. Good luck with planning ;)

Mary roughly shoved her phone back into her pocket. Sherlock noticed her foul mood after she checked the messages, but decided not to pry. Mary stepped back over to Sherlock.

"Who else hates me?" she asked.

Sherlock instantly handed her a sheet of paper with a long list of names on it.

"Oh great, thanks."

John sat in his usual chair, looking through his phone. He read aloud, "Priceless painting nicked. Looks interesting."

Mary looked down at the paperwork before her and mumbled, "Table four…"

"Done," Sherlock said to her.

John chuckled at something on his screen. "My husband is three people."

"Table five," Mary instructed.

Sherlock looked at a list. "Major James Sholto. Who is he?"

"Oh, John's old commanding officer. I don't think he's coming."

"He'll be there," John assured.

"Well, he needs to RSVP then."

"He'll _be_ there."

"Mmm," Mary replied.

John read from his phone again. "My husband is three people. It's interesting. Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin.

Sherlock stood up. "Identical triplets, one in half a million births. Solved it without leaving the flat," he quick-fired. "Now, serviettes."

Sherlock crouched down beside the coffee table, reached under it, and pulled out a tray with two serviettes folded into different shapes. He gestured at them as he looked up at Mary.

"Swan or Sydney Opera House?"

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Mary exclaimed.

"Many unexpected skills required in the field of criminal investigation…"

"Fibbing, Sherlock."

"I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of-"

"I'm not John. I can tell when you're fibbing."

Sherlock sighed in defeat. "Okay, I learned it on YouTube."

Mary laughed. "Opera House, please."

She leaned over to one side and reached into her trouser pocket. "Ooh, hang on. I'm buzzing." She took out her phone and lifted it to her ear.

"Hello? Oh, hi Beth!"

John lifted his eyes from his phone as Mary walked into the kitchen. "Yeah, I don't see why not," she spoke into the phone.

John stood up and looked at Sherlock. "Actually, if that's Beth, it's probably for me too. Hang on." He headed towards the kitchen while Sherlock sat on the floor, cross-legged and facing the coffee table.

In the kitchen, John walked over to Mary. "He knows we don't have a friend called Beth. He's going to figure out that it's code."

"He's YouTubing serviettes."

"He's thorough," John suggested.

"He's terrified."

"Course he's not!"

"Right, you know when you're scared of something, you start wishing it sooner just to get it all going? That's what he's doing."

"Why would he be scared that we're getting married? It's not going to change anything. We'll still do stuff."

"Well, you need to _prove_ it to him. I told you to find him a new case."

"I'm trying."

"You need to run him, okay? Show him it's still the good old days." Mary nodded encouragingly at John and gestured towards the living room. She put her hands on his back and shoved him forward.

Sherlock briefly glanced up as John entered the room. There were dozens of serviettes scattered around him, folded in Sydney Opera House shapes.

"That just sort of…happened," Sherlock explained.

John walked forward to his friend sitting on the floor. "Sherlock, um…mate." Sherlock stood up, and John continued. "I…I've smelled eighteen different perfumes; I've sampled," he paused to think. "Nine different slices of cake which all tasted identical. I _like_ the bridesmaids in purple-"

"Lilac," Sherlock corrected.

"Lilac. Um, there are no more decisions left to make. I don't even understand the decisions that we have made. I'm faking opinions and it's exhausting, so please, before she comes back…" John glanced toward the kitchen, where Mary was still "talking" to Beth. He activated his phone, and slid it across the table to Sherlock. The screen showed Sherlock's _Science of Deduction_ website. "…pick something."

Sherlock eyes flickered down to the screen a few times.

"Anything. Pick one," John pleaded.

"Pick what?"

John blinked a few times and then laughed. "A case. Your inbox is bursting. Just, get me out of here."

Sherlock leaned in to whisper to John. "You want to go out on a case. N-now?"

"Please, Sherlock, for me."

Sherlock took the phone. "Don't you worry about a thing. I'll get you out of this." He flicked through the messages on his website. "Oh," he said, finding something of interest.

"Let's go and investigate. Please?"

"Elite Guard," Sherlock read.

"Forty enlisted men and officers."

"Why this particular Grenadier? Curious."

"Now you're talking."

Sherlock handed the phone back. "Okay."

They stood up and started walking towards the doors just as Mary came back into the room with her phone at her ear. "Bye," she said to the phone.

"Er, we're just going to…" John said. "I need, um, Sherlock to help me choose some, er, socks." Sherlock said "Ties" as the same moment John said "socks."

Mary looked form one man to the other. "Why don't we go with socks?"

"Yeah," John agreed.

"I mean, you've got to get the right ones," she pointed out.

"Exactly. To go with my…outfit." John said "outfit" the moment Sherlock blurted out "tie."

"That'll take a while, right?" Mary asked.

John pointed toward the kitchen. "My coat in there?"

"Yes!" Mary said a little too excitedly.

Sherlock moved over to Mary. "Just going to take him out for a bit. Run him."

She smiled. "I know. You _said_ you'd find him a case!"

"Mm."

"Come on, Sherlock," John called.

"Coming."

Sherlock stepped over to the stairway. Both men were now in different rooms and could not see each other. They simultaneously gave Mary a big thumbs up. She grinned at them and did the same. Sherlock and John then both headed down the stairs.

As Sherlock finished putting on his coat and walked out the door, he called out, "Taxi!"

Mary returned to her wedding planning, happy that both her boys were off on an adventure. She walked over to her list of bridesmaids and crossed off Janine's name.

"You won't be attending my wedding. And you certainly won't be my maid-of-honor," Mary whispered to the air.

* * *

 **Things heat up! Janine appears to be blackmailing Mary with knowledge of Mary's dark past, and Molly is turning into a nervous wreck. Please review, I love reading what the readers have to say. Also, polite, constructive criticism would always be welcome.**


	5. How Dare You

**Sorry! It's been longer than usual since I updated. I have a ton of summer work to do. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy the story!**

* * *

Sherlock stood in his living room, drumming his fingers on the table. He frowned. Why couldn't he solve this? He sighed. Perhaps it was the fact that John and Mary were now living together. John was no longer his flat mate, and that meant that John would no longer be around constantly to help Sherlock think. John's mere presence made him think much more clearly. He stared at his wall, which was covered in papers and documents all pertaining to a woman named Janine Hawkins. His eyes darted quickly from paper to paper, trying to find connections or clues. He was sure she was the one who blackmailed Lady Smallwood.

A few days prior, Lady Smallwood came to the flat of 221b to inquire for Sherlock. She informed him that someone was blackmailing her with her husband's old love letters to an underaged girl, but she didn't know who. All the information Lady Smallwood gave him when she asked for his help a few days ago pointed to Janine's workplace. He shut his eyes and thought in concentration. Now how could he get close to Janine? His heart sunk a little when he found a solution.

Sherlock sighed. "Is there any other way…" he mumbled to himself.

* * *

John and Mary lay asleep in bed, with Mary's hand draped across John's torso over the covers. John twitched as his dreams flashed back to his time back in Afghanistan. Someone pounded on the front door of their home, but John and Mary remained asleep. The banging on the front door sounded again, and John jolted awake and sat up in bed. He threw back the covers and walked over to the front door, where someone was still knocking. John opened it to find a woman standing there, who had clearly been crying for some time.

She hiccupped and more tears ran down her face. "I know it's early. Really, I'm sorry."

John stared at her blankly. The fog of being woken up early in the morning still had not left his mind. Mary walked over behind John.

"Is that Kate?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, it's Kate," John replied.

Kate sobbed some more, holding a tissue to her nose.

"Invite her in?" Mary suggested.

"Er, sorry, yes. D'you wanna come in, Kate?" John stepped aside to make way for her. Kate walked into their hallway toward Mary.

"Hey…" Mary said sympathetically.

* * *

Mary and Kate sat on the sofa of the living room. Mary gently stroked Kate's arm while she continued to cry.

"It's all right," Mary assured.

John walked over and set two mugs onto the coffee table. "There you go."

"It's Isaac," Mary said to John.

"Ah, your husband."

"Son," Mary corrected.

"Son, yeah."

"He's gone missing again," Kate cried. "Didn't come home last night."

Mary let out a concerned sigh and looked up at John. "The usual."

"He's the drugs one, yeah?" John began to pace back and forth.

"Er, yeah, nicely put, John," Mary said.

"Look, is it Sherlock Holmes you want? Because I've not seen him in ages," John said to Kate.

"About a month," Mary clarified.

"Who's Sherlock Holmes?" asked Kate.

Mary looked at John. "See? That _does_ happen."

Kate continued. "There's a-a place they all go to. Him and his…friends. They all do whatever they do…shoot up, whatever you call it."

"Where is he?" John asked.

"It's a house. It's a dump. I mean, it's practically falling down."

"No, the address. Where, exactly?"

* * *

Shortly afterwards, John was dressed and walking down the path to their car parked at the curb. Mary followed him, still in her pajamas.

"Seriously?"

John turned back to her. "Why not? She's not going to the police. Someone's got to get him."

"Why you?"

"I'm being neighborly."

"Since when?"

John chuckled briefly. "Since now. Since this exact minute."

"Why are you being so…." Mary twirled her hands expressively.

"What?"

"I dunno. What's the matter with you?"

"There's _nothing_ the matter with me!" John shouted forcefully. He said quickly," Imagine I said that without shouting."

"I'm trying," Mary replied. She walked briskly to the passenger side of the car. She opened it and shut it, looking at John, daring him to challenge her. John stared at her for a moment, and then got into the car.

* * *

John and Mary arrived to the address Kate gave them. John walked to the back to the car and pulled out an item. He walked around the car and tucked the item into his jeans.

Mary laughed and pointed to what he was tucking into his pants. "What is that?"

"It's a tire lever."

"Why?"

John nodded toward the house. "Cause there were loads of smackheads in there, and one of them might need help with a tire. If there's any trouble, just go. I'll be fine." He started to proceed toward the house.

"Er, John, John, John, John," Mary called to him. He stopped and turned back to her. "It is a _tiny_ bit sexy."

"Yeah, I know," John said nonchalantly.

John walked across to the front door of the house, which had a large sign stuck to it saying: PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT. John banged loudly on the door.

"Hello?" John called out. The door slowly slid open, revealing a scruffy and dirty young man wearing a jacket with the hood pulled over his head standing on the other side.

"What d'you want?" asked the scruffy young man.

"Excuse me." John barged his way in and walked down the hall. The scruffy man peered outside for a moment, and then turned toward John.

"Naah, naah! You can't come in 'ere!"

John continued walking, peering through rooms as he went. "I'm looking for a friend. A very specific friend. I'm not just browsing." Upon reaching the last room in the hallway, John turned around and started walking back again.

"You've gotta go. No one's allowed 'ere."

John stopped a few paces away from the young man and cleared his throat. "Isaac Whitney. You seen him?"

The scruffy man took a flick-knife out from his pocket and snapped it open, holding it towards John.

"I'm asking you if you've seen Isaac Whitney, and now you're showing me a knife. Is it a clue?" John asked impatiently.

The scruffy man gestured with his knife toward the open door behind him.

"Are you doing a mime?"

"Go. Or I'll cut you," the scruffy man warned.

"Ooh, not from there. Let me help." John walked toward the man, stopped close enough so that he could actually stab John fi he wanted to. The scruffy man stared at him, wide-eyed. "Now, concentrate. Isaac Whitney."

"Okay, you asked for it!" But before the scruffy man could start moving the knife to John, John lashed out his left hand, seizing the scruffy man's right arm, and ruthlessly slammed him into the wall. As the scruffy man cried out in pain, John used his right foot to sweep the man's feet from under him. The man slumped to the floor and John stepped back. John bent down and retrieved the knife that fell on the floor. The scruffy man groaned in pain.

"Right. Are you concentrating yet?"

"You broke my arm!"

"No, I sprained it."

"It feels squishy! Is it supposed to feel squishy?" He held out his right arm to John. "Feel that!"

John reached out and squeezed the arm. "Yeah, it's a sprain. I'm a doctor, I know how to sprain people." He released the arm while the scruffy man groaned some more. "Now where is Isaac Whitney?"

"I don't know!" John gave him a menacing look. "Maybe upstairs."

"There you go," John said encouragingly, patting the scruffy man's legs. "Wasn't that easy?" John briskly stood up and walked toward the stairs.

"No. It's really sore. You're mental, you are."

John pocketed the flick-knife as he went. "No. Just used to a better class of criminal."

John entered a large room upon reaching the top of the stairs. He looked around for a brief moment. There were several people lying or sitting on mattresses throughout the edge of the room. Most everybody looked totally stoned, unaware of their surroundings or what was going on. John grimaced and slowly walked across the room.

"Isaac? Isaac Whitney?" John stepped over to two people lying side by side on mattresses. "Isaac?" he repeated.

One of the men tiredly raised a hand. The young man gazed blearily up at John, who kneeled down beside Isaac.

"Hello, mate," John greeted. "Sit up for me? Sit up." John laid a supporting hand on Isaac's back.

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yep." John lifted his eyelid, checking Isaac's eyes.

"Where am I?"

"The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth. Look at me."

"Have you come for me?"

"Do you think I know a lot of people here?"

Isaac laughed hazily.

"Hey, all right?" John asked concernedly.

On the mattress to Isaac's right, another person, wearing ragged and dirty clothing, rolled over and propped himself onto one elbow.

"Ah, hello John."

John raised his head, his eyes widening as he recognized the man leaning on his elbow to be Sherlock.

"Didn't expect to see you here." Sherlock pushed back his hood and squinted his eyes at the light. "Did you come for me too?"

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed.

* * *

Isaac stumbled over to the car where Mary was.

"Hello, Isaac!" she greeted cheerily.

"Mrs. Morstan, can I, can I get in, please?" he asked blurrily.

Mary pointed a thumb behind her. "Yes, of course, get in. Where's John?"

Isaac opened the rear car door. "They're having a fight."

"Who is?" Mary asked urgently.

Over at the house, Sherlock and John were having a heated argument. Sherlock angrily punched a door, knocking it off its hinges and sending it crashing down. "For God's sakes, John! I'm on a case!"

John followed Sherlock down the fire escape. "A month, that's all it took. One."

"I'm working."

"Sherlock Holmes in a drug den! How's that going to look?"

"I'm undercover."

"No you're not!"

Sherlock threw his hands in the air, anger radiating off of him. "Well, I'm not now!"

The two men had finally gotten out of the house, and Mary was waiting for them in the car.

"In. Both of you, quickly," she ordered sternly.

John stepped into the shotgun seat while Sherlock sat next to Isaac. The scruffy man from earlier came hurrying out of the house, cradling his hurt arm. Mary sighed in exasperation at her boys, then turned to look at the new arrival standing in front of the car.

"Please. Can I come? I think I've got a broken arm."

"No. Go away," Mary shooed.

"No, let him," John said.

"Why?" Mary asked.

John leaned out of the window and pointed toward the rear of the car. "Yeah, just get in. It's a sprain."

The scruffy man ran to the side of the car.

"Anyone else? I mean, we're taking everybody home, are we?" Mary questioned.

Sherlock shifted to the center of the rear seat to give the scruffy man some room. He quickly got in and looked at Sherlock.

"All right, Shezza?" the scruffy man asked.

"Shezza?" John asked incredulously.

"I was undercover," Sherlock replied tetchily.

"Seriously, Shezza though?" Mary laughed.

Sherlock sighed again.

"We're not going home. We're going to Bart's. I'm calling Molly," John declared.

"Why?" Mary asked while Sherlock busily wiped some of the dirt off his face with a handkerchief.

John held his phone to his ear while replying to Mary. "Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

* * *

Molly worked busily, and she was already finishing her tests on Sherlock's urine sample. Sherlock stood nearby, sulking. On the other side of the lab, the scruffy man sat on a side bench while Mary wrapped a bandage around his arm. Isaac sat nearby, staring at particularly nothing. Molly straightened up and took off her gloves with two loud snaps.

"Well? Is he clean?" John inquired.

Molly threw her gloves down. " _Clean?"_

Molly turned and walked over to face Sherlock. She looked up at him with anger in her eyes. Despite how much taller Sherlock was than her, he felt fear and shame in himself as he looked down at her. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Molly slapped him hard on the face with her right hand. Mary, the scruffy man, and Isaac looked over at them in surprise. Molly raised her hand to slap him again, just as hard as last time, and for good measure, slapped him once more with her left hand. Sherlock blinked and grimaced.

"How _dare_ you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?" She glanced at John and then looked back at Sherlock. "And how _dare_ you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry."

Sherlock held his face, not saying anything. John stormed toward him, keeping his voice low. "If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called. You could have talked to me."

"Please do relax. This is all for a case."

"A ca…What kind of case would need you doing this?"

Sherlock stared at him, looking for an answer. The case was Janine Hawkins, but doing drugs definitely wasn't directly part of the case. It was just distraction for himself. Might as well change the subject. "I might as well ask you why you've started cycling to work."

John shook his head. "No. We're not playing this game." He turned and walked away.

"Quite recently, I'd say. You're very determined about it."

"Not interested."

"I am." The scruffy man spoke up. Sherlock turned to look at him. "Ow," he said as he looked up at Mary.

"Oh, sorry. You moved. But it is just a sprain."

"Yeah. Somebody 'it me."

"Who?"

Bill turned his head to look at John. "Eh, just some guy."

"Yeah," John agreed. "Probably just an addict in need of a fix."

Sherlock looked directly at John. "Yes. I think, in a way, it was." John held Sherlock's gaze for a moment, then looked away.

"Is it his shirt?" the scruffy man asked.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, it's the creases, innit?" The scruffy man looked across to John. Sherlock did the same. "The two creases down the front. It's been recently folded but it's not new." Sherlock smiled slightly. "Must have dressed in a hurry this morning," the scruffy man continued. "So all your shirts must be kept like that. But why? Maybe cause you cycle to work every morning, shower when you get there and then dress in the clothes you brought with you." Sherlock looked at the scruffy man appreciatively. "You keep your shirts folded ready to pack."

"Not bad," Sherlock said.

"And I further deduce…" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and he and John exchanged a brief glance. "…you've only started recently, because you've got a bit of chafing."

"No, he's always walked like that," Sherlock corrected. "Remind me, what's your name again?"

"They call me The Wig."

"No they don't."

"Well, they, they call me Wiggy," the scruffy man said awkwardly.

"Nope."

The scruffy man hesitated and looked down. "Bill. Bill Wiggins."

"Nice observational skills, _Billy."_ Sherlock grinned. His phone sounded a text. He fished the phone out form his pocket and checked the message. He looked around the room briefly; his eyes met Molly's angry and disappointed ones. _Sorry,_ he said mentally. "Excuse me for a second." Sherlock quickly left the room.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter and the story so far! Please leave your thoughts in a review.**


	6. How Did This Happen

**Hello everyone! Sorry this chapter came a bit late. I've been busy, taking summer classes and all that. On a happy note, I recently went on a major rollercoaster for the first time! It was so fun. What do you guys think of rollercoasters? And heights? I find that the higher and faster you're going, the better.**

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Sherlock and John sat in silence for most of the cab ride home. Once the taxi pulled up outside 221b Baker Street, Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh as soon as he saw the closed front door.

"What is my brother doing here?" He got out and headed for the front door.

John tetchily called out after him. "So I'll just pay, then, shall I?"

Sherlock got to his doorstep and glared at the door knocker. "He's straightened the knocker." He turned to John as he got out of the cab. "He always corrects it. He's OCD. Doesn't even know he's doing it." Sherlock pushed the door knocker so that it was crooked again and let himself in.

Sherlock stopped and rolled his eyes at the sight of Mycroft waiting for him on the stairs.

"Well then, Shelrock. Back on the sauce?" Mycroft asked condescendingly.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock hissed.

"I phoned him," John said.

Mycroft continued. "The siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy. Though, in many ways, cross-dresssing would have been a wiser path for you. Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?"

"We?" Sherlcok frowned.

Anderson's voice sounded from upstairs. "Mr. Holmes?"

"For God's sake!" Sherlock said furiously. He stormed up the stairs, Mycroft and John following him. Sherlock stepped into the kitchen and glared at Anderson.

"Anderson," Sherlock said angrily.

Anderson raised his gloved hands apologetically. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's for you own good."

Sherlock turned and and walked toward his armchair, where another member of the search team was sitting, reading a book. The man hurriedly scrambled out of the chair and scampered away. Sherlock flipped his hood up and climbed into the chair.

Mycroft came into the kitchen and looked towards Sherlock. "Some members of you little fanclub. Do be polite. They're entirely trustworthy, and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat."

Sherlock curled up sideways in his chair and rested his head on one of the arms, closing his eyes.

"You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can't afford a drug habit."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at Mycroft irritably. "I do not have a drug habit." He was lying of course, but he didn't want to admit defeat to Mycroft.

John was focused on a large space between Sherlock's chair and the kitchen. He pointed. "Hey, what happened to my chair?"

"It was blocking my view to the kitchen," Sherlock replied.

"Well, it's good to be missed."

"Well, you were gone. I saw an opportunity."

"No, you saw the kitchen."

Mycroft turned to Anderson. "What have you found so far? Clearly nothing."

"There's nothing to find," Sherlock said.

"Your bedroom door is shut." Sherlock sighed as Mycroft slowly walked along the hallway. "You haven't been home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?"

Sherlock raised his head and flipped his hood back as Mycroft progressed. He finally reached the door and placed his hand on the door knob. Sherlock hurled himself into a sitting position. "Okay, stop! Just stop." Mycroft turned the knob but didn't open the door. "Point made."

Mycroft released the door knob and slowly came back along the hall. "Have to phone our parents, of course, in Oklahoma." Sherlock stood up and walked closer to his brother. "Won't be the first time that your substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line-dancing."

Sherlock opened the door behind Mycroft. "What was I going to say? Oh yeah. Bye-bye." He pointed the way out.

Mycroft walked around him, then turned to face him. "Unwise, brother mine."

Immediately Sherlock seized Mycroft's left arm and twisted it behind his back, then slammed him face first against the wall. Mycroft cried out in pain. Sherlock breathed rapidly, his voice venomous. "Brother mine, don't appall me when I'm high."

John hurried over to Mycroft's side. "Mycroft, don't say another word. Just go. He could snap you in two, and right now I am slightly worried that he might."

Mycroft pushed himself free of his brother's grip and held his left arm in pain. Mycroft glared at Sherlock.

"Don't speak. Just leave," John instructed softly but firmly. He bent down and picked up Mycroft's umbrella. John straightened up and offered it to him. Mycroft snatched it from his hand and left.

Sherlock returned to the living room. He stood, stretching and rubbing the back of his neck. "What time is it?" he asked as John entered the room.

"About eight."

Sherlock sniffed deeply and sighed out a disgusted breath. "I need a bath." Sherlock gave John a small smile as he went over to the bathroom. "And stay out of my bedroom," he called through the closed door.

As soon as Sherlock was out of sight, John hurried over to his friend's bedroom door, curious to see what his friend had in there. Apparently, whatever it was, it was enough to warrant a warning to John to not go inside. Of course, John had to go look. He had just reached the hallway when the door of Sherlock's bedroom opened and a familiar face popped into view.

"Oh, John. Hi," greeted Janine. She opened the door a little wider, revealing that she wasn't wearing anything on her legs. Embarrassed, she pulled down her shirt. "How are you?"

John stared at her in disbelief. Who was this woman in Sherlock's bedroom? And why was she in there? She seemed familiar...Oh right. She was one of Mary's friends. She was going to be one of the guests at the wedding. "Janine?"

"Sorry. Not dressed." Janine headed toward the kitchen, and John moved aside to let her pass. "Has everybody gone? I heard shouting."

"Yes, they're gone."

Janine glanced at her watch. "God, look at the time. I'll be late." She walked over to the counter and picked up a mug. "Sounded like an argument. Was it Mike?"

"Mike?"

"Mike, yeah. His brother, Mike. They're always fighting."

"Mycroft," John corrected.

"Do people actually call him that?"

"Yeah." John frowned, unable to believe what was happening.

"Huh. Oh, could you be a love and put some coffee on?"

"Sure. Right, yeah."

Janine headed back towards the hallway. "Where's Sherl?"

John breathed the name out with an amused breath. _Sherl!_ He grinned. "He's just having a bath. I'm sure he'll be out in a minute."

"Oh, like he ever is!" Janine walked along the hallway and knocked on the bathroom door, immediately opening it and going inside. "Morning! Room for a little one?"

John could hear Sherlock's laughter and Janine's giggling commencing through the walls.

* * *

John sat at the edge of the coffee table while Sherlock paced across the living room, wearing black trousers, a jacket, and a clean, white shirt.

"So, it's just a guess, but you've probably got some questions," suggested Sherlock.

"Yeah. One or two, pretty much."

"Naturally." Sherlock turned towards the kitchen, where Janine stood, also fully dressed, enjoying her cup of coffee. Smiling, Sherlock sat down.

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Yes, I have." Sherlock pulled out a random file and commenced giving John a rapid spitfire of information about some case. But all John had in his head was the thought that Sherlock had a _girlfriend,_ onethat wasn't Molly.

"Yes, you have."

"Sorry, what?"

"You have a girlfriend."

"What? Yes! Yes, I'm going out with Janine. I thought that was fairly obvious."

"Yes. Well...yes. You are in a relationship?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "Yes, I am."

"You and Janine?" John stared at him for a moment. Sherlock and Janine had nothing in common. Well, he didn't know much about Janine, but nobody really had anything in common with Sherlock.

"Mmm, yes. Me and Janine."

"Care to elaborate?"

Sherlock drew in a long breath, deciding on what to say next. He looked up thoughtfully. "Well, we're in a good place. It's um...very affirming." Sherlock smiled at him.

John, not convinced, pointed accusingly at him. "You got that from a book."

"Everyone got that from a book."

John looked around as Janine emerged in the room. He smiled politely at her.

"Okay you two bad boys, behave yourselves." Sherlock smiled happily at her as she sat down on the arm of his chair. He put his arm around her as she leaned close to his face. "And you, Sherl, you're going to have to tell me where you were last night."

"Working," he replied. John stared at the two awkwardly.

" _Working._ Of course. I'm the only one who really knows what you're like, remember?"

"Don't you go letting on," he said softly. He laid his hand on her arm. They stared deeply into each other's eyes. John just gawked some more, unable to believe what he was seeing.

"I just might, actually." Janine tore her eyes away from Sherlock and looked across to John. "I haven't told Mary about this. I kind of wanted to surprise her."

"Yeah, you probably will."

"But we should have you two over for dinner really soon!"

"Yeah," agreed Sherlock.

"Oh, I'd better dash. It was brilliant to see you!"

"You too," John said. He turned and watched Sherlock escort Janine to the living room door and open it for her.

"Have a lovely day. Call me later," Sherlock said affectionately.

Janine adoringly looked up at him and fiddled with his jacket. "I might do. I might call you, unless I meet someone prettier!" They kissed, and quite noisily so. John looked away from their intimate moment, still unsure of what to make of all this new information. Janine pulled back. "Solve me a crime, Sherlock Holmes." Grinning, she turned and left the room. Sherlock smiled as he watched her go, but the smile was wiped clean off his face as soon as she was out of sight, an act that went unnoticed by John. Sherlock strode back to the living room, where he resumed to tell John all the details of his latest case, all while gesticulating rapidly. John, of course, still wasn't listening. He had but only one thought in his mind.

"What about Molly?"

Sherlock frowned at being interrupted, and at the fact that John still wasn't listening. Of course, it was only just a fake case because his real case involved Janine, but John couldn't know that yet. And besides, the fake case was really interesting. How could John not be paying attention?

"What _about_ Molly?" Sherlock asked.

John stared at him, befuddled. "Aren't you two still..." He was at a lost for words. It's not like they were technically dating anymore, but it was only a matter of time before they did. Things were just...complicated.

"Together?" Sherlock suggested. "And no. We've been apart for months now. Molly's clearly moved on and...so have I." Sherlock turned away from John to hide the sadness on his face. He could deceive pretty well, but his last lie was hard to get out.

John leaned back in his chair. He didn't particularly believe Sherlock, about the whole moving on thing. Perhaps Janine was just a rebound? Molly and Sherlock were clearly perfect together. But he couldn't discourage Sherlock from dating, John didn't want him to remain a social recluse, so all he said was, "Okay."

* * *

Janine walked out of the flat of 221b with a huge grin on her face, thinking of all the things she had on Mary. For some time, Janine was suspicious that Mary was planning something, something to get rid of her. But Mary wouldn't dare try anything, as Janine was now dating the world's one and only consulting detective. If anything happened to Janine, he would surely come to her rescue and trace all the clues and trails, which would eventually lead to Mary, thus destroying her life as she knew it. Plus, if anything bad happened to Janine, Sherlock would be devastated, and as a result, so would John. Mary wouldn't do that to her boys. She smiled as she waved over a cab, unaware of what Mary was actually capable of doing. Sure, blackmailing a former assassin was dangerous and risky, but Janine had Sherlock Holmes as her insurance.

A large wind suddenly blew, howling through the streets and causing several papers to fly about. Janine hurried into the cab that just pulled over, shielding her hair from the harsh wind.

The cabbie turned around, a pipe dangled from his mouth. "Bad east wind, eh? It's only going to get worse."

"Yeah, whatever. Take me to CAM Global News please."

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 **So how did you like that? Be sure to leave a review! What do you guys think Molly's secret is? And what will Mary do in response to Janine blackmailing her? Things are only going to get worse.**

 **I've recently become an editor/beta reader for CastingAnthems. "Recreating Love", one of their stories, is about Roman, Irene's son. When Irene gets killed, Roman has to move to London to try and find his father, Sherlock Holmes, who has no idea he exists! If it sounds intriguing, check it out! It's quite wonderful.**

 _"There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared." -Arthur Conan Doyle_


	7. Over for Dinner

**Hello, hello! Back with another chapter. Things have been a bit hectic at home, but the good news is that my summer classes have ended! Except I still have quite a bit of AP summer homework to do still...But writing is never a chore! Thank you everyone who's favorited, followed, or reviewed this story. It means a lot to me and it gives me motivation to write more and faster. So here you go, the next chapter of this story.**

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Sherlock Holmes and Janine Hawkins sat eating dinner at the Watson residence. The room was pregnant with unspoken words, curiosity, tension, and awkwardness. The guests picked up the food with their utensils and mechanically chewed. John spent most of the time just staring curiously at Janine, still trying to figure out what on Earth she did to get Sherlock Holmes to date her. Mary continued making feeble attempts to start conversation, despite absolutely despising the situation, but none so far were successful.

Sherlock gave a inaudible sigh. He didn't want to be here. Not that he had anything against the Watsons, but he didn't want to be faking a relationship to a woman he detested in front of them; Mary and John were after all, some of his closest friends. He tried eating quickly, but that was a bit hard when Mary's cooking today was slightly less on par than usual, which was odd since her food was usually delicious, and Sherlock had little appetite. He made a mental note to punish John later for inviting him and Janine over for dinner. Perhaps he would leave the leftovers of an experiment in his fridge. Thumbs, perhaps? Sherlock also found himself straining to lie and act like his relationship with Janine was real. Usually, he could pull off the whole fake relationship thing and fool everyone. But with Mary present, it was so much harder. Sherlock shifted uneasily in his seat as he recalled the words Mary said to him while they were wedding planning. " _I'm not John. I can tell when you're fibbing." Just a few more days,_ he reassured himself. Just a few more days and then he could stop lying to everyone he cared about.

Janine st perfectly poised, taking small, ladylike bites of her food. She was enjoying every moment of this night. Making Mary serve her and feed her, all with her new superstar intelligent boyfriend Sherlock sitting next to her. The night really couldn't be better. She enjoyed making Mary squirm. It was all too good. Janine had to often stifle a laugh as Mary continued trying to make small talk. Janine glanced at the clock. Nearly twenty minutes had passed since they started dinner. She would have to make the announcement soon, if Mary wasn't going to.

Mary sat as still as a statue, the tension gripping every muscle in her body to pure stillness. She steadily gazed at Janine, watching her every move like a vulture, waiting for its prey to die before the feast began. Janine smugly smirked at her with the knowledge that Mary couldn't do anything to harm her. Mary tried not to let the anger and hatred radiating off of her be noticeable to the boys. She politely tried to make conversation, but each attempt failed and Janine would just keep rubbing it in Mary's face with her stupid smile, wordlessly reminding her that she knew Mary's secret. Mary gripped her fork tighter, hard enough to bend the handle. _Just keep smiling,_ Mary told herself. _How did she do it anyway?_ How did she get _the_ Sherlock Holmes to go out with her? The only woman to ever do that was Molly. _Maybe Janine has something on Sherlock and is blackmailing him to go out with her...but what?_ An idea popped into her mind _. Aha! The drugs! Sherlock is going out with Janine because she knows about the drug use, and threatened to tell the media and tabloids. Sherlock has a reputation now and can't afford to screw that up._ Mary smiled, a genuine smile this time. It was the only thing that made sense, so it had to be true. Right? There was no other reason why Sherlock would ever date someone as low as Janine. Mary let out a small exhale of breath as she remembered the kind of person Sherlock was. He wasn't the type to be blackmailed without a fight. And plus, he didn't care about what the tabloids thought of him. _She must be a rebound from Molly then,_ Mary thought smugly. Well, no matter what the reason was, Mary took comfort in the fact that she knew it wasn't going to last long. _Just a few more days,_ Mary told herself. Just a few more days of putting up with Janine and then she would never have to see her again. Mary inwardly rejoiced as she went through her foolproof plan again in her head for the umpteenth time.

John continued unashamedly staring at Janine. _What on Earth does Sherlock like about her?_ Not that there was anything _wrong_ with Janine, it was just that it was Sherlock. He didn't like most people, and most people didn't like Sherlock. John didn't exactly see the connection between them either. He didn't doubt the validity of the relationship of the pair, but he didn't see how a relationship formed between them in the first place. The atmosphere also felt a bit awkward and unnatural. He briefly wondered why. Sherlock was dating Janine, and Mary and Janine were friends. So why was no conversation taking place? John pondered some more, and then came to a conclusion. _It's me, isn't it?_ Janine knew everyone else at the table; she knew everyone except John. _Maybe I'm the reason it's so awkward. I mean, I have been staring at her. A bit rude, I suppose._ John straightened up and was determined to make Janine feel welcome in the home. He slightly sagged his shoulders once more when he thought of Molly. He missed her. Things were never awkward between the four of them, and things didn't have to be strained. It was all natural. But that didn't mean he couldn't try with Janine.

"So, Janine," John began. "How did you and Sherlock meet?"

Janine smiled, a hint of maliciousness in the gesture. John Watson, Mary's fiance. She wasn't quite sure what exactly she didn't like about him, just that she didn't like him. "We bumped into each other at a club-"

"A club?" John asked, disbelief in his tone. Sherlock Holmes didn't go to clubs.

Janine's forced smile twitched when she was interrupted. "Yes a club. Anyways, it was dark, I was walking along a hallway and then I turned a corner. Immediately, I bumped into Sherlock! He was such a gentleman. He apologized and introduced himself. We just clicked and spent the rest of the night talking." Janine fibbed a bit at that. She and Sherlock didn't really click instantly. She was actually quite pissed at having been bumped into, but all her anger dissipated when she learned that the tall stranger in the dark was none other than Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't let an opportunity to further associate herself with him slip away. One, he was famous. And two, he was close to Mary. Janine spent the rest of the night faking her way into his good graces.

Mary narrowed her eyes at the recount of the story. She didn't quite believe it, but she wasn't getting the sense that Janine was lying to her either.

Sherlock chimed in. "And the rest, is history." He forced himself to wrap his arm around Janine's shoulder and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. It wasn't really by chance that he bumped into her in the corner at some low-class urban club. He did his research beforehand and found out that Janine frequented the the establishment every Friday. Sherlock then planned a date and set the future meeting. He pretended to have a connection with Janine after purposely bumping into her in order to get closer to her and investigate her association in Lady Smallwood's blackmailing. And the rest, really was history.

John opened his mouth to ask some further questions when Janine suddenly spit out her food. The whole table flinched, taken aback by her suddenness and the unsanitary spray of food. Janine grabbed a napkin and wiped her mouth. She grinned evilly when her mouth was under the cover of the paper, but the grin was quickly replaced by a frown as she removed the cloth. "Ugh. That food was horrible. Possibly the worst I've ever had in my life. I didn't want to say anything at first, but then I couldn't just stand it anymore. Were you drunk when you made that or what? There has to be some reason for the pure atrocity of this meal. Or maybe it's just your natural incompetence. You never were really good at anything."

Sherlock clenched his fist underneath the table. It took all his strength to not let the harsh words swirling his head burst out to insult Janine and put the arrogant prick in her place. John also frowned, the neutral look in his eye replaced by a harder, less understanding one. No one insulted Mary or her cooking. How was Janine even Mary's friend in the first place?

Janine looked pointedly at Mary, waiting to see her reaction. Mary meekly smiled, knowing what Janine wanted her to say. "I apologize." Sherlock and John widened their eyes at her words. Mary continued, "Is there anything else I can get you? Anything that wasn't made by me? Some leftover Chinese in the fridge or ice cream?"

Janine shook her head. "No, your meal put off my appetite. I think I'm done eating." Janine pushed her plate away. "Now, Mary. Is there an announcement you'd like to make?"

Mary twitched her eye. "Yes," she said slowly. She knew what Janine was hinting at. "I've finally decided on a maid of honor for my wedding." Mary took a huge breath and forced her next words out. "It's...Janine."

At that moment, John was drinking his water, trying to cool off some of his steam after Janine had blatantly and rudely insulted Mary and her cooking. But when he heard Mary's announcement of who the maid of honor was, he took a sudden intake of breath, causing him to swallow the water in an wrong way and choke on it. John quickly set down the glass of water and started coughing, trying to get the burning and odd sensation of water where it wasn't supposed to be out of his throat. There was an awkward pause of no words among the group, and the only sound that could be heard was John's fierce, violent coughing. He finally got his problem under control and cleared his throat.

"Did you say Janine?" John asked weakly.

Mary stared directly at the wicked smile of Janine. "...Yes."

Sherlock grinned widely. "Well congratulations, both of you!" He could feel something off about the atmosphere. He could sense anger radiating off John, and felt something else he wasn't quite sure off radiating of of Janine and Mary. He was also a bit confused. Why would Mary name Janine as the maid of honor? Something was off, and he needed time to plan and think. Better get out of here. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall behind Mary's head. "Oh, look at the time. We better get going, Janine. " Sherlock abruptly stood up and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

Janine followed his lead. She couldn't stay if Sherlock, her protection, was leaving. She smiled at John and Mary. "Thanks for having us over for dinner. I would say it was lovely, but..." Janine left the bewildered couple at the table and walked to the door, hand in hand with Sherlock. She turned before going out the front door. "See you at the wedding." She flashed a pearly white smile and disappeared, walking into the night with Sherlock in tow.

* * *

Molly Hooper sat alone in the pub, attempting to drink her sorrows and worries away. She had recently heard from John that Sherlock was dating someone new, a woman named Janine Hawkins. Molly laid her head down on the table and thought. She thought Sherlock loved her? He even admitted so weeks ago. Molly said she needed some time, and then Sherlock went and started dating someone new. _Perhaps he's trying to make me jealous?_

After Molly found out about the relationship, she did her fair share of snooping into Janine's life. Molly looked up social media accounts, news, and basically anything regarding Janine. Molly was dismayed at what she found. Janine was pretty, quite pretty really. And she worked as an assistant to one of the most powerful men in Great Britain at a huge newspaper corporation. Molly struggled with her alcohol induced brain and tried to remember the name of the man Janine worked for, but then stopped when she figured that it didn't matter anyway.

Molly placed her index finger on the hardwood table and traced figure eights. She was so confused. And stressed. Her romantic life was in tangles, and she hadn't heard from the person blackmailing her in a while. The waiting for a sign, or for her life to fall apart was killing her. And Molly had no idea what to do about her situation. _Could things possibly get worse?_ But there was one hope she had, that the blackmailer simply knew her secret and had no evidence to back it up. All those years ago, nobody saw her doing the deed, and the real cause of death of her father certainly wasn't on paper.

Molly also had to wrack her head for reasons why someone would want to blackmail her. Did she ever do anything wrong to others? Molly always aspired to be kind and nice, and while that philosophy often times sacrificed her wishes in order to help others, it was a good way to live.

The pathologist fished around in her purse and threw some bills on the table before leaving the pub. It was late, and she was drunk. She needed sleep, and worrying wasn't doing any good for her. Molly recalled a few words her father told her before he died. She had been standing by his hospital bed and crying. She was a little girl then and her dad's illness hadn't been quite so serious. Her dad had woken up from his surgery and lifted Molly's chin up with his firm, gentle hands. Molly looked up at him with her big sad eyes. _"Look up, sweetheart. Don't be sad. Things will get better. They always do. You just have to be strong."_ Molly stumbled into a cab she waved over a bit earlier. She collapsed onto the seat cushions and silent tears ran down her face. Was this what being strong looked like?

* * *

 **So how was that? What's Sherlock's plan to investigate Janine? And what's Mary going to do about Janine blackmailing? Could things get any worse for Molly? Hint: yes. Leave a review telling me what you think of the story or what you think might happen!**


	8. Potassium Chloride

**I'm back with another chapter! Sorry this took some time. I've been busy, and really just lazy. But reviews, follows, and favorites really do encourage me! Enjoy the chapter.**

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Molly drunkenly sauntered into her home, struggling to even walk straight. She smacked her hand repeatedly into the wall, trying to find the light switch in the pitch black darkness. Her fingers finally found the familiar switch on the wall and flicked it on. Bright light flooded the room and Molly squinted her eyes. Something was off. Molly slumped down to the floor and wrestled her heels off her feet as she tried to figure out what was wrong. She finally got her shoes off and had thrown them at the wall in frustration. There was something missing that she couldn't quite figure out, and it was driving her insane. That and the eerie silence of the flat.

 _Toby!_

Molly briefly rejoiced as she figured out the problem, but her hopes were dashed as worry rooted itself deeply in her chest. Where was Toby? The cat always greeted her at the door when she came home late because if Molly was late, that meant dinner was late too, and Toby certainly loved his food. Molly quickly got herself into the next room of the apartment: the living room. She froze and her muscles tensed as she saw what was on her coffee table, the same coffee table where she found her other messages from her blackmailer.

There on the table was her beloved cat, lying on his side, motionless. Molly slowly approached the body, quickly sobering up with every step. Stray tears ran down her face as she hoped that the worst possible scenario had not come to pass. Molly had finally reached the table, and she crouched down. She reached out a ginger hand and placed her palm on the side of her cat.

Cold.

Molly's hand quickly shot back and her body flinched so hard that she fell back and landed on her bottom. She curled in her knees and hugged them. For a moment she just laid motionless, trying to figure out all the possible explanations of why Toby was like this, why he was cold and motionless. Her stage of denial quickly passed, and Molly's eyes widened and then produced a flood of tears, followed by painful, involuntary hiccups produced from her chest. A pain, starting from the center of her chest, slowly spread and engulfed her entire body in grief and pain. Molly sat in the same position, mourning over the loss of the one and only being in the world that she was sure would never leave her. How was she going to cope with this? Molly was already starting to terribly miss the adorable bundle of fur. The way Toby leaped and bounced off her furniture. The comfort of his purrs. The ever changing tail, commonly shaped into an endearing question mark. His attitude as he waited for his food every night. How, every morning, Toby climbed into her bed and nudged for her to move over and give him some mattress space. Molly even missed his awful tendency to knock down her freshly brewed cups of tea.

Molly pushed her hair out of her face and looked up at her cat lying on the coffee table. She moved closer and gently lifted the feline up. She heard a crinkle as she carefully moved the body into her lap. Molly turned her attention back to the table and found the source of the odd crinkle. There was a note there, formerly placed below Toby's body. In careful calligraphy that would have appeared beautiful in any other circumstance was written: Cam.

Chills ran through Molly and goosebumps spread along her arm. She felt fear, genuine fear for the first time in forever. The familiar rush of adrenaline pumped through her veins, making her feel alive. Molly was now hyper-aware, ears pricked, straining to hear anything in the silent flat while her mind raced for clues and explanations. This was a message. Not that she would soon follow her cat, no. From what she knew, Cam was a person who liked to play games. There was something for her to figure out, and the answer lay hidden in her cat's murder. Her expert fingers moved across Toby's body. There were no physical signs that Toby was hurt in any way. _How did he die? Injection._ Molly blinked and yawned wearily. She was tired and drunk. Molly carried Toby's body into the kitchen and gently put him inside a clear, plastic bag. She placed him in the freezer and walked back to bed, heavy weariness in her step.

* * *

The next morning, Molly awoke to a bright sliver of sunlight peaking through a crack in her curtains. Any other day, the beautiful light would have been a welcome way to wake her up. But today, Molly was not only mourning her beloved pet, but she had a hangover. She quickly slipped out of bed, got dressed in a hurry, and retrieved Toby's body from where she left it in the freezer.

Molly quickly slipped out of her door and onto the streets of London. She kept Toby's body hidden in one of her larger purses, specifically the one she also used to smuggle body parts out of the hospital for Sherlock's experiments. She never thought she would have to use the large bag for her own smuggling purposes. Molly nodded politely at the neighbors who greeted her, not stopping to make friendly conversation like she usually did. She was determined to get her task done and not be sidetracked.

Molly finally arrived at the hospital. The worker sitting at the front desk gave Molly a quick greeting. Molly nodded once, giving a quick greeting back as she did with every other person that morning. She was about to step onto the elevator when a confused look appeared on the receptionist's face.

"Wait, Molly. I thought today was your off day?" Colvin Anthems, the middle aged receptionist, asked.

"It is. I just have to run a few tests, and I'll be back on my way."

Colvin smiled and wished her good luck before he returned to his pile of papers.

Molly waited impatiently in the empty elevator. The ding finally sounded and she arrived on the floor of her workplace. She rushed in the laboratory and set up her equipment. There was a theory she had, and years of doing autopsies had led her to her hypothesis. Toby had no signs of physical harm, and when Molly found so on the bodies she had to inspect, it usually led to the conclusion of death by injection. Toby had thick, dark fur though so carefully looking all over his body wouldn't cut it. Instead, she would run a simple test on Toby's blood. Animal blood and human blood weren't too different, right?

Molly took a sample of the cat's blood and impatiently for the test results to come back. She tapped her foot while she stared at the clock in front of her. Cam wouldn't just kill her cat. There had to be a message. She glanced over to her right. The test results had come through. Molly's eyes frantically searched the blood report. Her eyes landed on a familiar chemical. Potassium chloride. And Toby was administered fatal amounts. All the air in Molly's lungs left her and she stood there, not even breathing, just staring at the words in front of her. There was no doubt about it. There was no coincidence. Cam knew what Molly did to her father.

* * *

A day had passed since Molly ran the blood test on her cat. She destroyed the results in a fit of paranoia, and had cremated the corpse of Toby. The ashes were now residing right in front of her fireplace. Molly had spent the day filling out paperwork and getting things in order for her departure, if it was going to come. She still wasn't sure what Cam wanted to do with her, or who he was. All she had to do now was wait.

Molly sat in front of her window, wistfully staring out the window. She didn't feel worry, or even fear. She felt nothing. Maybe even relief. Her long kept secret was known by someone, and it perhaps it would soon be out in the open. Maybe she deserved it. All she had to do now was wait and see what Cam would do.

* * *

While Molly was staring wistfully out the window of her flat, Sherlock and John were making their way over to CAM Global News. The pair stepped through the revolving doors of the building once they arrived.

"Magnussen's office is on the top floor, just below his private flat." Sherlock pointed toward the elevator doors, which appeared to need electronic key cards to access them. He continued, "But there are fourteen levels of security between us and him. Want to know how we're going to break in?"

John looked exasperated at him and the idea of breaking into someone's office, but really inside, his heart was pumping with excitement at the adventure that was to come. "Is that what we're doing?"

"Of _course_ it's what we're doing." Sherlock stepped forward and John followed him. They stepped onto an escalator. "Magnussen's private lift. It goes straight to his penthouse and office. Only he uses it, and only _his_ key card calls the lift. Anyone else even tries, security is automatically informed." They reached the top of the lift and started walking towards Magnussen's private elevator.

Sherlock pulled out a key card from his pocket. "Standard key card for the building. Nicked it yesterday. Only gets us as far as the canteen. If I was to use this card on that lift now, what happens?"

"Er," John answered. "The alarms would go off and you'd be dragged away by security."

"Exactly."

"But if I do this..." Sherlock pressed the security card against his phone. "If you press a key card against your mobile phone for long enough, it corrupts the magnetic strip. The card stops working. It's a common problem, never put your key card with your phone. What happens if I use the card now?"

"It still doesn't work," John replied, unsure now.

"But it doesn't read as the _wrong_ card now," Sherlock elaborated. "It registers as corrupted. But if it's corrupted, how do they know it's not Magnussen?"

John looked around, checking to see if there was security around. "Huh."

"Would they risk dragging him off?"

"Probably not."

"So what do they do? What do they _have_ to do?"

"Check if it's him or not."

"There's a camera at eye height to the right of the door. A live picture of the card user is relayed directly to Magnussen's personal staff in his office, the only people trusted to make a positive ID. At this hour, almost certainly his personal assistant."

"So, how's that help us?"

Sherlock smiled. "Human error."

"Wait." John stared at him, still confused. "Why are we breaking into Magnussen's office? This is nothing like the case you told me about a few days ago."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm surprised it took you this long to ask. But then again, you usually just go with things. The case I told you about was a cover up. This is the _real_ case. I couldn't have you knowing about my current case just quite yet. Weeks ago, Lady Smallwood came to me. She informed me that someone was blackmailing her, and she didn't know who. Hours of investigation later, and this is the closest I've gotten to who I'm sure the blackmailer is."

"Magnussen?"

Sherlock smirked. "You'll see." He walked along the corridor to the lift and raised his card toward the reader. There was a small beep as the reader read the card.

John stepped beside him, out of view from the camera. "You realize you don't exactly look like Magnussen."

Sherlock confidently looked at the security camera. "Which, in this case, is a considerable advantage."

A woman's voice sounded over the intercom to the security reader beside the lift. "Sherlock, you complete loon! What are you doing?!"

John spun around in surprise. "Hang on, was that...? That...!" The woman's voice belonged to Janine. Sherlock held up the palm of his hand to John to stop him from saying anything further.

"Hi, Janine." Sherlock glanced around furtively. "Go on, let me in."

"I can't! You _know_ I can't. Don't be silly."

Sherlock spoke to her softly. "Don't make me do it out here. Not..." Sherlock paused and turned his head to glance at a woman walking past. Once she was gone, Sherlock turned back to the camera. "...in front of everyone."

"Do what in front of everyone?" Janine asked, confused.

Sherlock lowered his eyes and blew out a big breath, then took out a small, dark, red box and opened it before holding it up to the camera to show the large diamond engagement ring inside it.

* * *

 **Love is in the air! Not really. Tragedy certainly is though, with the death of Molly's cat. I'll miss him. I'm sure with all the hints and clues I've been giving, some of you guys have a good idea of what Molly's dark secret is. If not, it's fine because in a future chapter I'll go into detail about it.**

 **And Janine. She appears to be blackmailing Mary, and Sherlock is also trying to find Lady Smallwood's blackmailer. Coincidence? I think not.**

 **Please review! The things you guys say, even if it's a word or two, makes my day.**


	9. I Need You

**Hello lovelies! Sorry it's been a bit too long since I updated. School is starting this Monday, gah. I don't own Sherlock, and most of the information and dialogue I get from arianedevere's transcript from online. Without further ado, here is the story.**

* * *

Janine gasped and straightened up, clapping her hand over her mouth. Downstairs, John stared at the ring. Sherlock turned on the biggest puppy eyes he could manage as he looked into the camera and smiled. Janine pressed a button and the lift doors opened up for Sherlock. He grinned and clicked the box closed and turned to John, whose mouth was gaping open as he stared at his friend.

"You see? As long as there's people, there's always a weak spot," Sherlock explained.

"That was Janine. Did you just get engaged to break into an office?"

"Yeah."

John leaned close to Sherlock and spoke quietly. "Sherlock, she loves you."

"Yes. Like I said, human error."

The doors of the lift closed and the ascent to the top began. John stood there with his brows furrowed, trying to think. He began, "You think, you think Lady Smallwood's blackmailer is...Janine."

Sherlock smiled. "I _know_ it's Janine."

"So why do you have to break into her high security boss's office? Why not her home?"

"Like you said, it's a high security office. Do you really think Janine would leave the letters she has on Lady Smallwood in her home? I already checked there, by the way. Why would she do that when she has access to one of the most highly guarded buildings in London?"

There was a slight pause. "So what will you tell her?" John asked.

"Well, I'll tell her that our entire relationship was a ruse to break into her workplace and take the files that she has on Lady Smallwood. Don't think she'll phone the police, seeing as she let her boyfriend into her boss's office. Magnussen would be very angry. He's a powerful man, he could destroy her. I imagine she'll want to stop seeing me at that point." Sherlock looked at John again. "But you're the expert on women."

The lift arrived at the 32nd floor and the doors opened for Sherlock and John to enter. Sherlock turned on his fake smile and stepped into the poorly lit office, looking around for his new fiancee. When he saw no sign of her, he looked around more carefully and frowned. The two men walked around the office, trying to find her.

"So where did she go?" John asked.

"It's a bit rude. I just proposed to her." Sherlock looked around once more. "I'll go check in the next room. Stay here and look for the documents."

John briefly nodded before shuffling through what he thought was Janine's desk. Sherlock stepped into the next room, where he was greeted by the sight of an unconscious suited man lying face down on the floor. "John! Security," Sherlock called.

John came to Sherlock's side. "Does he need help?"

Sherlock spotted a tattoo between the guard's thumb and index finger. The tattoo was five small dots, four of them in a square shape and the fifth in the middle of the square. "White supremacist, by the tattoo, so who cares? Go back to Janine's desk and keep searching." Sherlock stepped over the man's body and over to Magnussen's desk. He felt the seat. Cold. Good. That meant that the man was out of the building.

John hesitated to leave, unhappy about ditching anyone who was unconscious. He walked over to the warm body on the ground and did a quick check-up to make sure that the man was okay. He was. "We should call the police," John whispered as he took his phone out of his pocket.

"During our own burglary?! You're really not a natural at this, are you?" Sherlock replied in a loud whisper.

John switched off his phone and sighed. Sherlock glanced to the right of him. Stairs. He was about to go up the first step but he noticed a scent in the air. He paused and took a deep sniff. He sniffed twice more, and one more deep and final sniff. _Perfume, not Janine's._ He thought deeply for a moment before figuring out the name of the scent. "Claire-de-la-lune. Why do I know it?"

"Mary wears it." John answered him as he was leaving the room to go resume rifling through desks and drawers for the necessary documents. He entered the other room and left Sherlock to his own devices.

"No, not Mary. Somebody else." Sherlock lifted his head as he heard a noise from upstairs. He dashed off, running across the expanse of the room to the stairwell and hurrying upwards. Once he arrived at the end of the stairs, Sherlock found himself in what must have been Magnussen's private penthouse flat. Sherlock ventured quietly toward a room at the end of a carpeted hall, where he could hear Janine talking, sounding very anxious and almost tearful.

"What-what-what would your fiance think, eh?" Janine asked fearfully. Sherlock inched carefully toward a partially open door at the end of the hall. Janine continued, "He...your lovely soon-to-be-husband, upright, honorable..." Sherlock peeked through the gap in the door and saw Janine on her knees with her hands behind her head and cowering. "...so English. What-what would he say to you now?"

Standing in front of Janine, someone dressed all in black and wearing black gloves held a gun pointed to Janine. The person dressed in all black wore a black knitted cap on their head, also covering the person's hair. The person cocked the gun and pointed it at Janine again.

"No, no!" Janine cowered, whimpering. "You're-you're doing this to protect him from the truth. But is this the protection he would want?"

Sherlock entered the room and approached the person with the gun so that he was standing a few feet from the person's back. "Additionally," Sherlock began, "if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume...Lady Smallwood."

Janine straightened up a little, breathing out a shaky breath. "Sorry. Who?" Sherlock's gaze focused back on the potential killer, who tightened the grip on the gun. Janine looked back from the face of the assassin to Sherlock. "That's...not...Lady Smallwood, Sherl."

Sherlock frowned. Did Janine just ask who Lady Smallwood was? That wasn't possible. She _had_ have been the person blackmailing Lady Smallwood. All the clues pointed to this building, to this very office. The person in black slowly turned back to face him, aiming the pistol at him. Sherlock found himself looking in the face of Mary Elizabeth Morstan. He drew in a sharp breath and rapidly flashed back to all his encounters with her, thinking about all his deductions about her. His thoughts drifted apart and left only one word drifting in his mind.

 _Liar._

Mary's face was cold as she spoke to Sherlock. "Is John with you?"

"He's, um..." Sherlock said shakily.

"Is John _here?"_ Mary demanded firmly.

"He-he's downstairs."

Mary nodded.

"So, what do you do now?" Janine asked. "Kill us both?"

Keeping her pistol aimed in front of her, Mary smiled humorlessly over her shoulder at Janine before returning her gaze to Sherlock. He thought quickly. Why was Mary doing this? Unless...Janine may not have been blackmailing Lady Smallwood, but she could have been blackmailing someone else.

"Mary, whatever she's got on you, let me help." He shifted his weight onto one foot, preparing to step toward her.

"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you," Mary warned in an exasperated tone.

Sherlock shook his head with a small smile on his face. "No, Ms. Morstan." Mary stared at him, her mouth a little open. "You won't." He started to lift his foot off the floor.

Immediately Mary pulled the trigger. The bullet shot through the air and impacted his lower chest, slightly to the right of his shirt buttons. Sherlock's eyes unfocused and a look of shock appeared on his face as Mary sighed regretfully. He looked down at his chest, and after a moment, blood began to pour out of the hole.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mary said, her voice a little tearful. "Truly am."

"Mary?" Sherlock stared at her as she turned and pointed her pistol to Janine. He faded into partial unconsciousness as he retreated to his Mind Palace.

* * *

Sherlock was lying a bed at the hospital. He had just been brought back from the edges of death. He opened his eyes, his gaze became more focused, and his mouth began to close around the tube in his mouth in an attempt to form a word. " _Mary."_

* * *

 _Brrnnnnng. Brrnnnnng. Brrnnnnng._ Molly reached over for her phone, annoyed that her deep thought process was being interrupted. Maybe it was Cam. Without looking at the caller ID, she put her phone to her ear and asked, "Hello?"

"Hey, Molly." It was Colvin, the receptionist at the hospital front desk. "I'm sorry to inform you that Sherlock has been shot. You were listed as one of his emergency contacts."

Molly's eyes popped open. She hung up the phone, threw on a jacket, and ran out the front door. As she pounded her feet on the cement, running to the hospital, she had only one thought on her mind: _Sherlock._ All her problems, worries, and troubles faded and disappeared as a more monumental dilemma came to light. She didn't care that she was being blackmailed, she didn't care that she might go to prison if her secret was revealed, and she didn't care that Toby died. All Molly cared about was that her beloved Sherlock was safe, that he was alive. As she ran, panting down the street, she needed Sherlock to be okay even more than she needed oxygen. She continued her way toward the hospital with adrenaline pumping through her veins, a fiery passion for life warming her core, giving her strength to go on. She hadn't felt this alive in months.

* * *

Mary, dressed more normally now, hurried through the entrance and up a flight of stairs. John was waiting for her on the landing.

"Mary," John said, relieved.

"Hey." She walked over to meet him.

"He's only bloody woken up! He's pulled through."

"Really? Seriously?"

"Oh, _you,_ Ms. Morstan." John pointed a finger at her, trying to look stern. "You're in big trouble."

A look of confusion came across Mary's face. "Really? Why?"

"His first word when he woke up? 'Mary'!"

She giggled and John joined her with laughter. They hugged each other tightly. But over the shoulder of John, her face became serious.

* * *

Sherlock lay in his hospital bed, barely conscious.

"You don't tell him."

Sherlock tried to open his eyes with difficulty.

"Sherlock?" Mary gently said in a sing-song voice. "You don't tell John."

* * *

Daylight was streaming through the windows, and Sherlock's bed was slightly raised. His room was filled with flowers, and the scents of all of them combined almost made Sherlock sick. A man in a dark suit stepped into the room. Sherlock fluttered his eyelids, struggling to see who it was.

"They're not _all_ from me," Magnussen spoke, referring to the numerous flowers. He gestured to a vase on the left. "The struggling carnations are from Scotland Yard." He stepped to the lone flower across from Sherlock's bed. "And the single rose is from..." He picked up the card and read it. "W," he said, slightly befuddled. Sherlock raised one eyebrow at the sound of the letter. Magnussen sat at the side of Sherlock, who wasn't quite sure why he was here. Well, he and John _did_ break into his office. But still.

"Having shot you," Magnussen began. "The woman you know as Mary Morstan left without killing my PA, Janine. Which is odd, because that was the reason she came." Magnussen moved so that his lips were next to Sherlock's ears. "I didn't pass her identity onto the police." Sherlock began breathing harder. "Information like that is just too...valuable to be shared. Wouldn't you agree?" Magnussen moved away. He walked toward the exit. "And I took care of Janine. You won't ever be hearing from her again."

Magnussen disappeared down the hall, and Sherlock reached a shaking hand over to dial down his morphine. He needed to think clearly. Magnussen knew about Mary too then. Janine seemed to have no idea who Lady Smallwood was, but all the clues pointed to her workplace. _Oh._ Magnussen was the one blackmailing Lady Smallwood. Sherlock tightened his hands into fists. How could he have made such a big mistake? But, the mistake did prove useful, because even though Janine wasn't blackmailing Lady Smallwood, Sherlock found out an even more interesting piece of information. Janine was blackmailing Mary. And Mary, as it turned out, was an assassin. And somehow, someway, Magnussen knew too. Sherlock thought for a moment. Perhaps Magnussen was the one who passed along the information to Janine. He then toyed with the two, curious to see what his PA would do with the gold mine of information. Sherlock let out a huge breath. He reached back over to turn the dial back on to max for his morphine.

* * *

Sherlock awoke later to the face of Molly. He found himself looking at her beautiful brown eyes, which had apparently already been staring at him for quite a while.

Molly's face broke into a smile and she placed her hand on Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock," she said breathlessly. Her face grew more serious. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock slowly moved his hand to rest on hers. He intertwined their fingers, sensing that everything was alright between them.

"No. I'm not okay."

Molly tightened her grip on his hand. "What do you need?"

"You."

* * *

 **Things are heating up! The scene where Magnussen visited Sherlock is actually a deleted scene from His Last Vow. You can look it up on Youtube if you're curious. The lone black rose sent by "W" is, I assume, from The Woman. I really do wish they kept that scene in the episode.**

 **Please tell me what you think and review! Every review is deeply appreciated, even if it's a word or two.**


	10. A Facade

**Can't believe it's only been a week! Well, school has started, but I will still try and update this story regularly. Thank you to those who have followed and favorited.**

* * *

Later that day, evening came. Molly Hooper had already gone and John was leading Greg Lestrade up the stairs of the hospital to Sherlock's room.

"Don't know how much sense you'll get out of him. He's drugged up, so he's pretty much babbling," John explained.

They reached the top of the stairs and were walking along the landing when John saw Lestrade doing something on his phone. "Oh, they won't let you use that in here, you know."

"No, I'm not gonna use the phone. I just want to take a video," Lestrade explained. He and John grinned at each other and chuckled.

Shortly afterward, John opened the door to Sherlock's room and they stepped inside. The bed was empty. John walked around the room, shocked as he realized that the window was gaping wide open. "Oh, Jesus." He and Greg stared out the window and the two men exchanged a look.

* * *

Molly and Sherlock trudged down the back alleys of London, desperate not be seen. Sherlock's arm was thrown across Molly's shoulders, and he was leaning most of his weight on her, breathing heavily as the pain from his bullet wound shot through him in spasms. Molly was faring pretty well under the extra weight, she was stronger than she looked, and they were moving pretty quickly.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" Molly asked, noticing that he was panting and his body tensed up from the pain.

"Fine," he answered, trying to mask how hurt he really was.

Molly sighed. She pulled out a bottle of pills from her coat pocket. "Here, take one of these. I swiped it from the hospital. They should temporarily help with the pain. You still have to be-" Molly was interrupted by Sherlock eagerly snatching the bottle and downing a few pills. "...careful though," she finished. Molly frowned. "Try not to take too much. They've probably noticed you were gone by now."

Sherlock, feeling better now, urged her to move faster. "Obviously. Mycroft and the others are probably looking for me now."

Molly sighed. "You saw the shooter. The bullet entered your chest, so you must have been facing the person. Who was it?"

Sherlock answered with a question. "Do you trust me Molly?"

Molly didn't hesitate. "Of course."

"Then you don't need to know, not just yet."

* * *

Molly climbed through the window of the flat of 221b. She soundlessly collapsed onto the carpet of the living room. She slowly got up, straining to hear any signs that someone was home. Molly tip-toed to the upstairs attic when she decided that it was safe. She coughed as her steps made dust stir in the air. She located John's chair in the corner and, as quietly as she could manage, heaved the chair out of the attic and down the steps. The chair made a thud with every step of the stairs, and Molly tried to listen for anyone that may have been coming. Molly finally got to the living room and pushed the chair back to where it was before John moved out.

Molly went still as she heard keys being turned from the front door. She ducked under a table. As the front door opened, Molly could hear the familiar humming of Mrs. Hudson. The old lady slowly walked up the steps with bags of groceries in her hand. She trudged to the kitchen and set down the bags. Mrs. Hudson gasped as she opened the refrigerator door. "Thumbs!" Mrs. Hudson quickly slammed the door shut and went to the sink to start washing the pile of dirty dishes. Molly had to refrain from laughing at Mrs. Hudson's reaction to the thumbs in the fridge. Molly had given them to Sherlock to experiment on a while back.

Molly scrambled up and set a bottle of Claire de la Lune on the coffee table, angling it just the way Sherlock instructed. Molly hurried back to the window and disappeared into the night just before Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the living room, thinking she heard something.

Molly let go of the railing she was holding onto and landed onto the street by Sherlock. He was leaning against a wall, speaking quickly into the phone and firing orders. He hung up as soon as Molly came.

"Who was that?"

"Bill Wiggins. I was just ordering him to get some things."

"...right. So where are we headed now?" Molly asked.

"Leinster Gardens."

Molly walked into the street and hailed a cab. She and Sherlock climbed into the backseat and told the cabbie their destination. They leaned back in their seats as the vehicle drove through the streets, a content silence falling upon them. Their hands were intertwined and Sherlock was aimlessly staring out the window into the night, his mind a hubbub of the details of his plan.

Molly leaned over, took off his coat, and started to unbutton his shirt. Sherlock half smiled. "Molly, I really don't think this is the best time to-"

Molly swatted his arm. "Don't be silly!" Sherlock chuckled as she rolled her eyes. "I'm just checking on your wound," she clarified, blushing.

* * *

John was pacing in the living room of 221b. Greg and Mrs. Hudson stood nearby in the kitchen, worry on their faces.

"He _knew_ who shot him!" John exclaimed. The other two turned to face him as he stopped walking and pointed to his lower chest. "The bullet wound was here, so he was facing whoever it was."

"So why not tell us?" Lestrade asked, stepping closer.

John turned toward the window, letting out a thoughtful breath.

"Because he's tracking them down himself," Lestrade suggested.

John turned back to Lestrade. "Or protecting them."

"Protecting the shooter? Why?"

"Well, protecting _someone,_ then. But why would he care? He's _Sherlock._ Who would he bother protecting?" John slumped down in his armchair, frustrated. He looked down and patted the arms of the chair.

"Call me if you hear anything. Don't hold out on me, John."

John was still looking puzzled at the reappearance of his chair, which Sherlock had moved elsewhere after John had moved in with Mary.

"Call me, okay?" Lestrade repeated.

"Yeah. Yeah, right," John answered, distracted. Greg and Mrs. Hudson said their goodbyes as John stroked the arms of his chair, frowning.

Mrs. Hudson turned back to John worriedly. "John? Need a cuppa?" She walked into the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson..." John cleared his throat. "Why does Sherlock think that I'll be moving back in here?"

Mrs. Hudson glanced over at John. "Oh, yes, he's put your chair back again, hasn't he?"

"Huh."

Mrs. Hudson went into the kitchen to get John some tea. John's gaze fell onto the small table to the right of his chair. There were two books on it, and in from of them was an ornate glass bottle, shaped like a crescent moon. John frowned at it.

Mrs. Hudson came back with the tea in her hands. She stopped when she saw John fixated by the bottle on the table. "John, what's wrong? Tell me. John?"

John looked away from the bottle as a phone started ringing.

"That's your phone, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson walked across the room and retrieved the phone. She looked at the screen and then turned back. "It's Sherlock, John! It's Sherlock." She held out the phone to him but John was still staring at the bottle. "John!" she cried urgently. "You have to answer it!"

But John couldn't tear his eyes away from the bottle. He could now see that it was a bottle of perfume, and its name was Claire de la Lune.

* * *

Molly sat on the shoulders of Bill Wiggins, trying to place a projector in the trees.

"Hurry up!" Bill hissed. "You're heavy!"

"Well then quit shaking!" Molly said in frustration.

Sherlock was standing near the tree, once again talking to someone on the phone.

Molly was finally able to set the projector in a firm place in the trees. Sherlock mouthed to Molly to turn the projector slightly to the right. She complied and shifted the projector so that it was now straight.

"I'm...giving out!" Billy was too weak to support Molly any longer and the two collapsed onto the grass.

Sherlock hung up his phone and drew out two headsets. He gave one to Billy and the other to Molly.

"What do I do with this?" she asked.

"Put it on. And hide in the tree."

Billy groaned, knowing he would have to hoist Molly up there. With difficulty, the two finally managed to get her up there and comfortably seated in the branches. Sherlock stepped back. He smiled when he was satisfied that Molly was well camouflaged. He tosses up the remote to the projector up to her. She caught it ungracefully, fumbling a few times and almost dropped it.

"Turn it on when I need you to."

"How will I know when?"

"You'll know." Sherlock turned to Billy and told him to get into position. Billy scurried off and placed himself on a street corner. Sherlock strode off into the night and disappeared in a building.

Molly sat and patiently waited in the trees, fully trusting Sherlock in his judgement. She remembered the headset by her side and put it on. A few minutes later, Molly saw a cab pull up in front of the building. A figure got out and the cab sped away. She squinted, struggling to see who it was in the night. It was John Watson.

* * *

The moon was half full in the sky, and Mary was walking alone down the road towards Leinster Gardens. A homeless person was squatting with his back to the wall at the corner of the road. The hood of his jacket was pulled over his head, a blanket was wrapped around him, and a small plastic tub was sitting on the ground in front of him. As Mary walked by, the homeless man spoke to her in a hoarse voice.

"Spare any change, love?"

"No," Mary said, not stopping and not even glancing in his direction.

"Oh, come on, love. Don't be like all the rest."

She stopped and turned back to him. She ruffled in her coat pocket and took out a handful of change. Mary bent down and dropped the coins in the tub. Before she could fully straighten up, the man took a hold of her wrist. Mary looked carefully into his face and saw that it was Bill Wiggins.

He spoke in his normal voice now. "Rule One of looking for Sherlock 'omles..." He placed a phone and headset into her hand. "E' finds you." He stood and picked up his tub.

"You're working for Sherlock now," Mary stated.

"Keeps me off the streets, dunnit?"

"Well...no." She shook her head at him as the phone in her hand started to ring. As she placed the headset into her ear, Bill turned and walked away. She answered the phone.

"Where are you?" Mary asked as she walked along the road.

"Can't you see me?" Sherlock spoke through the phone.

"Well, what am I looking for?"

"The lie, the lie of Leinster Gardens, hidden in plain sight."

Mary stepped a few feet into the road so that she could get a better view of the tall houses lining the left side of the street. There was nobody else in the street, and no cars.

Sherlock continued. "Hardly anyone notices. People live here for years and never see it, but if you are what I think you are, it'll take you less than a minute."

Mary continued to walk down the road.

"The houses, Mary. Look at the houses."

"How did you know I'd come here?"

"I knew you'd talk to the people no one else would bother with."

Mary laughed briefly. "I thought I was being clever."

"You're always clever, Mary. I was relying on that. I planted the information for you to find."

Mary slowed down, looking at a couple of adjoining houses in the middle of the terrace. "Ohh." Mary sounded impressed. The face of the two houses caught her attention. There weren't any lights shining from any of the windows, unlike the houses on either side, but otherwise the two houses looked similar to the rest of the terrace.

Over in the trees, Molly sat, waiting patiently. She was listening to the entire conversation between Mary and Sherlock, and she was quite confused. Mary was standing in front of the houses that the projector was pointed at, and Molly sensed that it would soon be time to project the picture.

"What am I looking at?" Mary asked.

"No door knobs, no letter box..."

Mary looked toward the two front doors to confirm it, and then raised her eyes to the opaque windows.

"...painted windows. Twenty-three and twenty-four Leinster Gardens...the empty houses. They were demolished years ago to make way for the London Underground, a vent for the old steam trains. Only the very front section of the house remains. It's just a facade. Remind you of anyone, Mary? A facade."

Molly sat still, absorbing every word of the conversation, trying to piece together the clues. Sherlock asking her to help him break out of the hospital, preparing all this for...Mary. Sherlock was facing the killer when he was shot, so he knew who it was. But he didn't say, because it was someone he knew. And given the fact that he didn't tell the police, that also meant that he was protecting them. Molly sucked in a sharp breath and pressed the button on the remote. A large picture of Mary was projected onto the building. The projection was larger than Molly expected. Her heart sank. The photo was Mary at the flat of 221b. She was smiling into the camera and she had crinkles of laughter around her eyes. Molly recognized the day it was taken, it was Mary and John's engagement party. In the blurry background, Molly could make out friends cheering and drinking. A tear of anger pricked in Molly's eye. Mary was the shooter. She was the one who hurt Sherlock.

Mary turned around and looked behind her, trying to see where the picture was being projected from.

"Sorry. I never could resist a touch of drama."

Mary turned back toward the houses.

"Do come in," Sherlock invited. "It's a little cramped."

Mary proceeded to walk to the houses. "Do you own this place?"

"Mmm. I won it in a card game with the Clarence House Cannibal. Nearly cost me my kidneys, but fortunately I had a straight flush."

Mary walked toward the door that was slightly ajar with a dim light emitting from behind it. She pushed open the door and walked inside. All that was in the house was a long, narrow corridor. Mary focused on the far end of the corridor and made out a shape sitting on a chair in the shadows. She stared at the shape and drew in a breath.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock still spoke over the phone. "Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where, five years ago, you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter her identity."

Mary started slowly walking along the corridor.

"That's why you don't have any 'friends' from before that date. It's an old enough technique, known to the kinds of people who can recognize a skip-code on sight and have extraordinarily retentive memories."

Mary was now close enough so that she could see the person in the distance a little better, though the face was still covered by shadows. The person was sitting in a wheelchair, and there was a medical drip on a stand behind the chair.

"You were very slow," Mary finally spoke.

"How good a shot are you?" Sherlock asked over the phone.

"How badly do you want to find out?" Mary drew a gun out from her pocket.

"If I die here, my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even Scotland Yard could get somewhere with that."

Mary nodded her head in agreement.

"I want to know how good you are. Go on. Show me. The doctor's fiancee must be a little bit bored by now."

Mary took out a coin from her pocket. She flicked the coin high into the air, raised her gun, and fired at it. The coin fell to the floor as someone walked through the open front door. Mary turned around and recognized Sherlock.

"May I see?" he asked.

Mary peered toward the shadowy figure sitting at the end of the corridor, then turned back to Sherlock, laughing quietly.

"It's a dummy," she said. She took the headset from her ear. "I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick." Mary walked a few paces forward, put her foot against the coin, and sent it sliding across the floor toward him.

Sherlock bent down and picked up the coin. When he straightened up, his voice was tight with pain. "And yet, over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot." He held the coin up, which had a hole in it from the bullet. Sherlock was shaking, sweating, and breathing heavily. "Enough to hospitalize me, but not enough to kill me. That wasn't a miss." He smiled slightly. "That was _surgery._ I'll take the case."

Mary stared at him. "What case?"

"Yours." Sherlock frowned a little angrily. "Why didn't you come to me in the first place?"

"Because John can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever. And Sherlock, I will never let that happen." She took a step toward him. "Please...understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening."

Sherlock turned away. "Sorry." He walked toward the fuse box and flipped a switch. He looked back towards her. "Not _that_ obvious a trick."

As Sherlock flipped the switch, all the lights in the corridor came on. Mary's face filled with dread as she realized who was sitting at the end of the hallway. Letting out a shaky breath, she turned to look across the corridor. John was sitting in the wheelchair, looking back at her with no expression in his eyes.

* * *

 **Well how was that? This story is a bit different from the timeline of the series. Here, Mary and John haven't gotten married yet. I'm doing things out of order so that I can fit Molly's plotline in.**

 **Please review! Tell me what you think :) Polite, constructive criticism is always welcome.**


	11. A Confrontation

**Hello! So here's the latest chapter, sorry it's taken so long. Currently, I'm sick, sniveling, and I've turned on my humidifier. And I still have a lot of homework to do. Sigh. On the bright side, it's the end of August, and I'm quite excited because that means that it will be September soon, which means that it will be fall soon! I don't really like the hot weather of summer. I much prefer the cloudy, cold days of autumn and winter.**

 **I'm rambling. Enjoy the story!**

* * *

The atmosphere of 221b Baker Street was somber, tense, and filled with apprehension. Molly wasn't used to this kind of atmosphere, and she shifted around uneasily and John, Sherlock, and Mary stepped into the living room. Molly sensed that a storm was about to commence.

Mrs. Hudson rushed from the kitchen when she heard steps from the stairs. "John! Mary!" Mary gave a small smile and polite nod to Mrs. Hudson before moving past her toward the fireplace. Sherlock hobbled to the doorway with an arm draped around Molly's shoulder, bracing himself against her. Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened. "Molly! Oh, Sherlock! Good gracious, you look terrible!"

"Get me some morphine from your kitchen. I've run out," Sherlock ordered.

"I don't have any morphine!" Mrs. Hudson insisted.

"Then what exactly is the point of you?" Sherlock asked angrily. Molly frowned at Sherlock's rudeness. Normally she would scold him for such brashness, but he was hurt, irritable, and the Mary's lies had just been unveiled.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips together and looked around at everyone. "What _is_ going on?"

" _Bloody_ good question," John answered.

Sherlock looked at John. "Mary and John are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do."

"Oh, I have a better question." John paced toward Mary and looked her angrily in the face. "Is _everyone_ I've ever met a psychopath?"

Sherlock's eyes lifted and he thought for a moment. "Yes," he said quickly.

John turned toward him furiously. " _SHUT UP!"_ Even though the words were directed at Sherlock, Molly flinched. She had never seen him so angry. John spoke in a more normal volume now. "And _stay_ shut up, because this is _not_ funny." John gave him a humorless smile. "Not this time."

"I didn't say it was funny."

John turned back to Mary. "You." The simple, short word left John's mouth like a threat, a weapon. He breathed his next words heavily. "What have I ever done, my whole life, to deserve you?"

"Everything," Sherlock spoke.

"Sherlock, I've told you." John walked toward him. "Shut up."

"Oh, I mean it, seriously," Sherlock informed quietly. "Everything, _everything_ you've ever done is what you did."

John spoke softly, a hint of danger in his tone. "Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine."

Sherlock ignored his best friend's threat and continued to speak softly. "You were a doctor who went to war." John's eyes fixed on Sherlock. "You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high." Sherlock paused for a moment. "That's me, by the way." Sherlock raised his left hand and waved. "Hello."

Sherlock pointed to Mrs. Hudson. "Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel."

"It was my _husband's_ cartel," Mrs. Hudson protested. "I was just typing."

"And exotic dancing," Sherlock added. "John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. So is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock while pointing back to Mary on the other side of the room. His voice was full of suppressed tears. "But she wasn't supposed to be like that." Mary lowered her head. "Why is she like that?"

Sherlock looked toward Mary for a few seconds and then turned to look back at John. "Because you _chose_ her."

John turned away, his face unreadable. "Why is everything..." John's face contorted in anger as he walked toward the center of the room. "Always... _MY FAULT?"_ John furiously kicked the small table by Sherlock's chair across the floor.

Mrs. Hudson jumped. "Oh, the neighbors!" She hurried away.

"John, listen. Be calm and answer me." Sherlock spoke his next words slowly and precisely. "What _is_ she?"

John fixed his gaze on Mary. "My lying fiancee?"

"No. What is she?" Sherlock repeated.

"The woman who has lied to me since the day I met her?" Mary sadly gazed back at John.

"No. Not in this flat, not in this room. Right here, right now, what _is_ she?"

John smiled humorlessly as he realized what Sherlock was saying. "Okay." He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. " _Your_ way. Always your way."

Clearing his throat, John picked up one of the dining chairs and none too gently placed it down, facing the two armchairs in front of the fireplace. He looked at Mary. "Sit," he commanded.

"Why?"

In a tight, angry whisper, John replied, "Because that's where they sit...the people who come in here with their stories. Th-the clients, that's all _you_ are now, Mary. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk." John gestured toward the armchairs. "And this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not." John walked over to his chair and sat down, adjusting the cushion behind his back.

After a beat, Sherlock shifted out of Molly's support and walked by himself to sit down in his own chair. Molly watched his journey across the room carefully, assessing his health status. Mary watched Sherlock as he sat, then looked at John, who was slumped and not meeting her eyes. She slowly walked in between them and turned to sit in the dining chair, setting her shoulder bag on the floor beside her.

From the doorway, Molly uneasily watched the scene unfold. Mary adjusted her coat around her, dusted off the top of her legs, then turned to John as he looked back at her.

Mary placed a small flash drive onto the table beside John's chair, then withdrew her hand. Sherlock looked at the letters written on the drive.

"A.G.R.A. What's that?" Sherlock asked.

Mary cleared her throat. "Er...my initials." John grimaced and looked away. Mary continued, "Everything about who I was is on there." Mary spoke directly to John now. "If you love me, don't read it in front of me," she pleaded.

"Why?"

Mary held back tears. "Because you won't love me when you've finished..." John held her gaze. "And I don't want to see that happen."

With a loud sigh, John snatched the hard drive from the table and shoved it in his pocket. He pulled himself in a higher sitting position in his chair.

"How much do you know already?" Mary asked Sherlock.

"By your skill set, you are, or _were_ , an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something, you've used your skills to disappear." John shook his head, not believing what he was hearing. Sherlock continued, "Janine knew your secret, which is why you were going to kill her."

"The stuff she had on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life." Molly's eyes widened and she straightened up. That sounded familiar.

"So you were just going to kill her," John stated.

"People like Janine should be killed. That's why there are people like me."

"Perfect. So that's what you were? An assassin? How could I not see that?"

Mary spoke quietly. "You _did_ see that...and you proposed to me." Mary nodded towards Sherlock. "Because he's right. It's what you like."

"So...Mary," Sherlock spoke in a tight voice. "Any documents that Janine has concerning yourself, you want extracted and returned." Sherlock didn't mention Magnussen's visit in the hospital, and his cryptic message that Janine would be taken care of. Sherlock didn't need Mary worrying that someone else knew about her past.

"Why would you help me?"

"Because..." Sherlock breathed heavily. "You saved my life."

"Sor-sorry, what?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at Mary. "When I happened on you and Janine...you had a problem. More specifically, you had a witness. The solution, of course, was simple. Kill us both and leave. However, sentiment got the better of you. One precisely calculated shot to incapacitate me, in the hope that it would buy you more time to negotiate my silence. Of course, you couldn't shoot Janine. On the night that both of us broke into the building to search for Lady Smallwood's documents, your own husband would become a suspect. So, you calculated that Janine would use the fact of your involvement rather than sharing the information with the police. And then you left the way you came. Have I missed anything?"

"How did she save your life?" John asked.

"She phoned the ambulance."

"I phoned the ambulance," John corrected.

"She phoned first. You didn't find me for another five minutes. Left to you, I would have died. The average time for a London ambulance is..." Sherlock looked at his watch. The clatter of feet arose from the stairs and two paramedics ran into the room. "...eight minutes."

"Did somebody call an ambulance?" a paramedic asked.

"Did you bring any morphine? I asked on the phone," Sherlock said.

The paramedic looked puzzled. "We were told there was a shooting."

"There was, last week." Sherlock held two fingers over his wrist. "But I believe I'm bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic." He put his arms on the chair and started to push himself upwards. "You may need to restart my heart on the way." Sherlock's knees buckled and John, Mary, and Molly hurried forward to support him.

"Come on, Sherlock. Come on," John coaxed. The two paramedics came and took a hold of him.

"John. The danger is over now. No one is going to threaten Mary, I guarantee it." Even though Sherlock knew Magnussen had information on Mary's past, Sherlock had a feeling Magnussen wouldn't be using it. "You can trust Mary. She saved my life."

"She shot you."

Sherlock half nodded. "Er, mixed messages, I grant you." Sherlock grimaced and cried out in pain.

"Sherlock? Sherlock. All right, take him," John said to the paramedics.

The paramedics laid Sherlock down on the floor and put an oxygen mask over him. While they continued working, John and Mary stared at each other, assessing what to do next.

* * *

 **Well, that was tense. This chapter is a little shorter than the others, but it felt like a good ending spot. Please review and tell me what you think! I would love to hear your thoughts about the story so far.**


	12. I'm Trying

**And I'm back with another chapter! This one wasn't quite as long as I intended it to be, but I didn't want to go a month without updating, so here you go! My life's been a bit busy, and I'm also a bit lazy. Not really a good combination. Apologies! I've been trying to look at colleges, study for SAT, keep up with my AP work, and so on and so on. And I have a homecoming dance on Saturday! Woo! That should be fun. No matter how busy or lazy I am, I won't stop updating the story until it's completely finished! You can count on that. Enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

"Sherlock! The doctor said to get your rest!" Molly chided.

"I'm fine. The doctor is incompetent," Sherlock replied as he quickly moved about the room, shifting documents and papers around.

" _I_ say to get your rest," Molly challenged.

Sherlock smiled and moved closer to her. He kissed the top of her head. "I'm fine," he repeated, more gently this time.

Molly sighed and curled up on the couch in Sherlock's flat. She changed the subject, her tone becoming more somber. "Why are we still planning the wedding? It's been months. Are you sure John and-"

"Yes, I'm sure." Sherlock sat himself next to her and tilted her chin so that she was looking in his eyes. "Yes, I know it's taken a while, but I know John. I know they'll be alright."

Molly looked at Sherlock with doubt in her eyes. He smiled and scooted her over so that he could lie next to her. She obligingly moved over as Sherlock placed a arm around her.

"You know, when you and I were on break-"

" _Break?"_ Molly scoffed.

Sherlock chuckled. "Well, we both knew it wasn't going to be permanent."

"Right."

"Anyway. Mary was the one who most avidly supported us being together again someday, despite...how bleak the future seemed."

"Hm." Molly liked Mary before, sure. But after Mary shot the love of her life, she wasn't quite so forgiving. Molly was trying of course to sympathize with Mary because Molly knew what it was like to want a dark secret stay buried in the past.

Sherlock huddled closer to Molly and whispered in her ear, "Molly, you can trust her. And if the fact that she saved my life isn't good enough-"

Molly snorted.

"Then trust her because I do."

Molly sighed and buried her face in Sherlock's arm, exhausted by the day's work. "Hm. Fine." Molly pondered her encounter with Mary from months earlier more deeply, and then drifted off to sleep, entwined in the arms of Sherlock.

* * *

 _2 months earlier_

Molly stepped onto the porch of Mary's house and knocked on the door. She was only here because Sherlock asked her to go talk to Mary, that she needed someone right now. Molly didn't quite see why _she_ had to be that someone, but Sherlock's constant insisting got to her and she finally have in. Molly was quite annoyed at the women who shot Sherlock, but she did her best to hide her annoyance as the front door opened, revealing Mary, who wasn't as disheveled looking as Molly expected her to be.

"Molly. Hello," Mary greeted with a small smile and slightly monotone voice.

"Hey, Mary. Can I come in?" Molly didn't quite pay attention to Mary's response and went ahead and stepped in. Her eyes carefully assessed the inside of the home; it looked as normal as it usually did. It had been a week since they found out that Mary was an ex-assassin, and Molly was surprised to see all of John's things where they should have been. His week old shirts were strewn about the couch and living room, and his shoes were still neatly placed near the door. Everything in the house was how it should have been, except that John was no where to be seen.

Mary gestured the kitchen. "Sit, I'll make some tea."

Molly strode across the length of the living room and into the kitchen where Mary pointed to. She patiently waited for her tea without saying a word, but really Molly was just putting off saying what she had to, well, what Sherlock insisted her to say.

Mary set down a large mug of tea in front of Molly and then sat across from her with her own mug of tea in her hands. "So what brings you to visit?"

"Well, I wasn't quite keen on visiting," Molly began. And she stopped. Molly stared deep into Mary's eyes and saw her pain and apology. She continued, "I wasn't keen on visiting. Not now, not ever. I'm only here because Sherlock trusts you, something that I can't really fathom." Molly took a deep, shaking breath, trying to contain her anger. "But because Sherlock trusts you, I'm trying."

"Thank you," Mary whispered, almost inaudibly.

"What?" Molly asked, not hearing her.

"Thank you, for trying. I can tell you really are."

"Yeah, um," Molly stuttered, caught off guard. "Maybe someday, I can put as much faith in you as Sherlock does." Molly saw a hint of relief and hope appear in Mary's eyes. "But don't hold your breath," Molly said quickly, still annoyed at Mary. Mary gave a small half smile. "Anyway, I came to tell you, well really Sherlock sent me to tell you, that you don't have to worry about the wedding planning that was in process and all the money involved. Sherlock and I will take care of it. Just...relax and take your mind off things."

"Thank you Molly." Mary gave her a genuine smile, something she had not done in a long while. Molly instinctively flashed a mile back, but it was so quick that if Mary had blinked, she would have missed it.

"Right, I'll be going now." Molly got up to leave when Mary grabbed her hand.

"Wait," Mary pleaded with a hint of desperation in her eyes, "How's John?"

"I don't know."

Mary let go of Molly's hand in surprise. "What? Isn't he at 221b?"

"No. I haven't seen him. Sherlock knows where he is, but he refuses to tell me."

"Oh."

"Don't worry, he just needs some space." Molly reprimanded herself inwardly. Wasn't she supposed to be mad at her, not comforting her? Molly frowned and quickly left.

When Molly got back to 221b, Sherlock informed her that "taking care of the wedding" didn't mean that they were going to disassemble it and try to get as much money back as possible; it meant that they were going to continue planning it without the knowledge of either the bride or the groom.

* * *

 **So yes, this chapter was a bit short. I was going to write more, but I didn't know how long it would take so I just decided to update because I didn't want you guys to wait so long. As soon as I write a chapter, I edit it and then publish it. It's the first time I've written so spontaneously, and it seems to be going well.**

 **Please leave a review! Constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome! (As long as it's polite).**


	13. Major James Sholto

**So I'm back with another chapter! And it's not too short or too late this time. I'm quite proud of this chapter and how it turned out. I feel like my writing has improved quite a bit since I started this story.** **I don't own Sherlock, or the characters, enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

John left his residence immediately after learning the truth about Mary. Anyone would expect for him to crash at 221b, but John needed even more space than that. He needed to get out of London, somewhere far, far away to clear his mind. Besides, he didn't think he could put up with Sherlock's snide comments about the situation with John being in such a fragile state, and so John could think of only one person he could count on outside of London, someone that always cleared John's mind with his presence, even in the high stress circumstances of war. That person was Major James Sholto.

* * *

John stepped off the platform of the train, stuffing his sweaty palms into his pockets. He hoped that Major Sholto had received his letter. John had not bothered to wait for a reply, and instead quickly bought the first ticket out of London to Yorkshire, hoping that he could count on his former commander. His eyes frantically swept the platform; he stopped when his eyes met that of a tall man clad in a simple suit with a severe scar on the left side of his face. The tension in John's shoulders was released, and he confidently strode up to James Sholto. The two men held each other at a distance and raised their hands to their foreheads in a salute, not saying a word until their hands were brought down. The somber expressions on the two's faces was transformed into smiles.

"Watson," Sholto greeted. He turned on his heel and left, indicating that John should follow him. John followed his former commander, and he naturally fell into a military march behind him even though they were in the civilian world. _Left...right. Left, right, left._

Sholto led John to a cab and helped him load his baggage into the trunk. They spent the entire ride on the way to Sholto's abode in comfortable silence, no aimless chattering and awkward conversation was needed for the two men. They understood each other thoroughly through their time spent together in war, where they learned to communicate with body language and eyes during the deathly circumstances of the battlefield. The cab stopped, and Sholto wordlessly helped John with the baggage and lugged it into his home, a small farmhouse which resided deep in the countryside, far from civilization.

* * *

Two weeks passed. Sholto still didn't know of the reason that John came, but he knew it wasn't just a leisure visit between friends. The former commander didn't dare ask, he knew John would tell him about his problems when he was ready, and if he was never ready, Sholto would be okay with that too.

John was glad for the man's silence, his quiet disposition, and the way Sholto seemed to readily accept John into his life and home without any questions. The former commander's reassuring presence gave John peace, security, and calm of mind. Being around the man eased away John's worries and allowed him to think clearly. They spent their days strolling outside among nature, listening to the birds sing and streams trickle, or doing handy work around the farm, fixing whatever needed fixing, or simply sat inside, reading, fixated on stories of another age and era in an attempt to escape their own realities.

* * *

Three months passed since John first arrived in Sholto's home. It was over tea one morning when John finally spoke up. "Mary."

Sholto looked up from his newspaper. John looked the same as he did every morning, calmly staring down at his book with a tea saucer in his hand. Sholto almost thought he had imagined the word utter from John's lips, but he trusted what he heard. _Mary._ A name. A woman. "Your lover," Sholto meant to state it as a question, but the tone of the phrase came out as a statement instead.

"Not so sure anymore."

Sholto merely took a sip of his tea and set it down again, not saying anything. He wasn't a man that said more words than was needed, and he sensed that an interruption from him wouldn't help John open up any more.

John continued, "She lied to me."

Sholto slightly raised one eyebrow.

"About her past. I mean, I guess it was justified. I mean, no it wasn't!" John slammed his hand against the arm of his sofa. He breathed heavily, and Sholto saw for the first time during his stay John's anger and confusion behind his eyes. "She _lied_ to me, about the most important aspect of her life. Bloody hell, we were about to get married!"

"But you still love her."

John stared at Sholto, a befuddled expression on his face. "What makes you-"

"You came here to cool down, to think. I've seen only one expression so far on you face during your entire stay here. You've been in thought, deep thought, pondering about what to do every waking moment. If you really did break things off with Mary, you would have already made up your mind and left her, no reason to come here." Sholto twitched a smile. "But you did come here, out here in the middle of nowhere, with clear skies and crispy air, to think. I doubt you wanted your chatterbox detective friend around while you were trying to contemplate."

John returned a smile, calmer now. "So you've been reading my blog?"

Sholto chuckled. "How else am I supposed to catch up on the life of my former second-in-command?"

John laughed. "Yeah, I suppose we don't catch up much." He sighed and leaned back in his armchair. "I just...don't know what to do."

Sholto took a sip of his tea. "Do you still love her?"

John exhaled a small breath and looked out the window thoughtfully. "I miss her," he whispered softly. "I miss that confidence, that self-assurance, that smile." Frustration reappeared on his face. "But never once did I think she could be so cold on the inside."

Sholto sensed John wasn't about to divulge his fiancee's secret to him, not now, not ever, which meant John was still loyal and protective of Mary. "Do you have any reason to believe that she is the same person now as who she was before?"

John paused and thought of Mary's attempt to kill Janine, which was somewhat justified, now that he thought about it. But she also shot Sherlock, even though the man claimed that Mary actually saved his life. "...yes. But I don't even know how, or who she was before."

"Hm." Sholto's comrade had quite the problem on his hands. "You've taken months to think about this. You can't stay away forever. It's time to come to a decision." Sholto stood up, knowing that John would need some time to think. Just before he left the room, Sholto added, "Think about Mary, how she makes you feel, and decide if life is worth living without her."

* * *

John constantly flipped and turned in bed that night, unable to find an acceptable position to sleep in, his mind racing with thoughts and what Sholto told him. He sighed. How did Mary make him feel? One word immediately popped into his mind: safe.

* * *

 _Three years ago, after Sherlock's "death"_

Sherlock was dead. John had seen his cold, lifeless eyes with his own, had felt the still pulse on his wrist. He spent a superfluous amount of time grieving, draining his tears, and blankly staring at the wall, wondering: Why?

It had been a long time. It was time to move on. So why couldn't John do so?

John's nights were once again filled with the return of painful wartime memories, of sweat soaked blankets, of desperate cries in his sleep. In fact, his current nightmares were even worse than before he had met Sherlock. It was Mary's first night over at John's when she was awoken by a frightened sounding yell and thrashing of blankets in the other room. She was habitually a light sleeper, and rushed over to John's room. She stepped over to his side and shook his shoulder, jerking him awake from the nightmare.

"John? John! Wake up!"

John snapped his eyes open and his soldier's instincts kicked in. He immediately punched where Mary stood, thinking there was an intruder. However, his groggy, sleep-deprived mind could not hope to keep up with Mary's lifetime of assassin training. She caught his punch and twisted his arm around so that it was pinned to his back. He thrashed about while Mary soothingly tried to calm him.

"John, calm down. It's just me, Mary." She continued letting sweet comforts fall from her mouth until the remnants of John's nightmare faded away and he realized where he was.

"Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry." John's frightened expression was replaced by a stoic, solid mask. "It was just a nightmare, sorry if I woke you-"

"John," Mary cut him off. She knew about John's military history, and she knew about his best friend's recent death, but never did John ever show to her or anyone that he was hurting this much. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah I'm fine. Like I said, it was just a nightmare-"

"John," Mary said more sternly this time. "I can tell when you're lying." Her voice softened. "You don't have to lie to me. You don't have to put up a front. I'm going to ask you again, are you okay?"

John's mask fell and his desolate expression returned. "I, no. No."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I don't know," John said as he buried his face in his hands. "I just don't know what to do," he whispered, his voice cracking. He felt a weight press onto the bed as Mary climbed on and inserted herself between him and the wall. She pressed her chest to his back and wrapped an arm around him.

"Go to sleep John." Mary waited as John's haphazard breathing finally became deep and regular. She smiled, content with her work, and went to sleep herself.

John sleep the rest of the night peacefully, an occurrence that had not happened in a long time.

He woke the next morning to the smell and sound of breakfast being made in the kitchen. He inhaled deeply and noticed the absence of Mary on the bed. He smiled to himself, because for the first time in forever, he was actually motivated to get out of bed, to be with the people he loved, and to live life.

* * *

John smiled to himself as he thought of the first time Mary had spent the night at his place. _Safe. She makes me feel safe and happy._ John chuckled. No wonder she caught his punch so fast! He had even socked Sherlock once in the early days of their co-existence together in the same flat. John took a deep breath, and his heart was at ease. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

 **So how was that chapter? Please leave a review! Even one or two words is very encouraging to me. Thank you to everyone who's read, followed, favorited, and reviewed this story! My deepest gratitude. Until next time!**


	14. Forgiveness

**Hello readers! Back again with another chapter. Sorry it took so long again, school has been really busy. Test after test, prep for the SAT, science fair, and more...This year is a nightmare, but it's been fun so far! Kinda. I found this new game and it's been slightly addicting.**

* * *

Molly jerked awake from a nightmare. She stiffened and looked around in the pitch darkness, trying to assess where she was. She felt wetness on her face, she must have been crying from the dream. Molly remembered that she was in the Sherlock's flat, and she had fallen asleep earlier in his arms on the couch after finishing the last touches on the wedding.

"Bad dream?" Sherlock felt Molly nod on his chest. "Want to talk about it?"

Molly shook her head. In the dream, she and Sherlock were in the living room, dancing to music they couldn't hear. She was laughing, and she was happy. Darkness then descended and the sunlight that was streaming through the windows disappeared as police officers broke through the door and approached. Sherlock screamed as Molly was dragged away for her crimes, and as she sobbed and cried an apology to Sherlock, she jerked awake.

Sherlock could feel Molly's warm tears through his shirt. He was slightly frustrated ever since Molly and him got back together after he was shot. There was still something she wasn't telling him, and it made Sherlock's heart ache to think that Molly would ever keep anything from him. He once tried confronting her about the vase of red peonies she threw away in the dumpster, but she started crying hysterically and slammed the door in his face. Sherlock didn't try and prod her for any further information and he decided to be patient, thinking that Molly would eventually open up.

She never did, at least not completely. Molly told him that Toby died, but Sherlock sensed that something was bothering her even more than the death of her beloved cat. Months passed as they blissfully spent their time planning the wedding for John and Mary, which was more fun than Sherlock initially thought thanks to the fact that Molly was around to assist him, but the feeling that something was not quite right always nagged at him.

Sherlock sighed. "Molly, please. I know something's wrong."

"I'll tell you another time, Sherlock. Just let me be." It broke Molly's heart to see Sherlock being so concerned and upset over her well-being. She tried her best to hide her fear and anxiety, but Sherlock could see through anything. She just wanted to spend what time she had left with Sherlock, and maybe Cam was being generous and letting her do so before he or she revealed her secret and hauled her off to prison.

Sherlock reluctantly complied and said nothing more as he stroked her hair, waiting until she fell asleep. What frustrated him the most was not the fact that Molly was keeping something from him, but the fact that he could do nothing to ease her.

* * *

Mary bid her coworkers good night and headed off onto the street with her hands in her beige coat pocket. She slipped a knitted cap over her head due to the light drizzle that was falling. Her ears pricked up as she heard running footsteps coming from behind her.

"Mary!" the man called. "Wait up!"

Mary frowned as she recognized the voice. It was Lenard, the man who worked next door who had started flirting with her the moment he noticed that John was absent in her life. She didn't slow her pace, and Lenard eventually caught up to her, panting and out of breath.

"You shouldn't be walking the streets alone! Let me walk you home," Lenard offered. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

"I'll be fine," Mary replied. She moved around him and tried to continue her journey home, but was stopped when he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"Mary," he said softly. He looked deep into her eyes, and Mary looked back at him with repulsion. Unfortunately, Lenard mistook the repulsion in her eyes for sentiment, and he cupped his hands around her face, pulling her towards him.

"What the-!" Mary stiffened and became defensive. She pushed against his chest, trying to slow the oncoming kiss. "Let go of me!" Their lips were about to meet when Lenard was abruptly shoved away from her by an outside force. He fell to the ground, surprised.

"I believe the lady told you to let go," spoke a calm yet angry voice. Mary's eyes brightened as she recognized the owner of the voice. John.

Lenard slowly got up, taking in the small stature of the man who had knocked him down. "Hey," he said as he intimidatingly cracked his knuckles. "I really think you should be minding your own business now." He lunged for John, whose quick reaction time enabled him to dodge out of the way just in time.

John jumped on Lenard, who was laying with his stomach to the ground on the street. He pinned Lenard's arm behind his back and added pressure until Lenard grunted in pain. "Mary _is_ my business. I suggest you run along now, I don't want to see you near her again," John warned. Mary's heart rate quickened when she heard John being protective of her. John got off of Lenard, who tried to regain some dignity by brushing himself off and walking the opposite direction from them, cradling his bruised, possibly sprained, wrist in his other arm.

John and Mary turned toward each other. Mary couldn't read his face. John took a deep breath and said, "We should get home. We need to talk."

* * *

 _We need to talk._ The words every person hopes never to hear from their significant other. Mary and John walked home in silence, which was uncomfortable for Mary but relaxing for John. They stepped through the threshold of their home and proceeded to the living room. John got the fireplace going and Mary stepped into the kitchen to make some tea. Once she returned, she found John sitting in his usual chair. She handed a cup to him and then sat down as well.

"So, are you okay?"

"Fine," Mary replied in a rather tight voice. She sipped her tea, her hands slightly shaking.

John reached into his pocket and took out a small silver flash-drive with the faded letters "A.G.R.A." imprinted on it. He showed it to her and then lowered his hand.

Mary sighed. "We're going to do this now?"

John simply stayed silent, looking at her.

"So have you read it?"

John looked down at the pen drive as he repeatedly turned it around in his fingers. "W-would you come here a moment?"

Mary shook her head. "No. Tell me. Have you?"

John repeatedly more calmly, "Come here."

Mary grimaced and got up. She walked across the room to him and John stood up as well. They met in front of the fireplace. Mary stopped in front of him and lowered her eyelashes.

"I've thought long and hard about what I want to say to you," he said in a whisper. "These are prepared words, Mary." She raised her eyes to him. John pulled in another shaky breath before continuing. "I've chosen these words with care."

"Okay," Mary said nervously.

John cleared his throat and then met her eyes. "The problems of your past are _your_ business. The problems of your future...are my privilege."

Mary's face crumpled as tears formed in her eyes.

"It's all I have to say. It's all I need to know." John looked down at the pen drive as Mary tearfully gazed at him. After a beat, he dropped the flash-drive into the fireplace. Mary started crying as she looked at the pen drive on the burning logs. "No, I didn't read it," John added quietly.

"You don't even know my name," Mary whispered.

"Is Mary Watson good enough for you?"

"Yes!" Mary sobbed out the word. "Oh my God, yes."

"Then it's good enough for me too." John stepped toward her and hugged her tightly.

They pulled back far enough to look into each other's eyes.

"All this does not mean that I'm not still basically pissed off with you."

"I know, I know."

"I am very pissed off, and it will come out now and then."

"I know, I know, I know."

John said softly, "You can mow the sodding lawn from now on."

"I _do_ mow the lawn."

"No, I do it loads."

"You really don't."

"I choose our first child's name?"

Mary laughed. "Not a chance."

"Okay," John said before pulling her in for another hug.

Mary smiled. "Mary _Watson_? Does that mean the wedding is back on?"

"Yeah. We should go tell Sherlock and Molly."

The pair released their embrace on each other. John and Mary got their coats and set off to flat 221b.

* * *

Mary and John walked along the sidewalk to Sherlock's flat.

"So who was that guy from earlier?" John asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Oh, the guy you sprained? That was Lenard. He works next door. He's been flirting with me ever since he noticed you were gone."

"Hm."

The corners of Mary's lips turned up in a smile. "Why? Jealous? Didn't know you were that type."

John refused to answer in embarrassment and hurried to knock on the building's door as Mary laughed.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to find Mary and John, arm-in-arm, much to her delight. "Oh! Mary, John! So glad to see you two have made up." She was about to continue, but sensing she was about to go on a rant, John kindly thanked her and informed her that it was urgent they see Sherlock and Molly. "They're right upstairs," she stated as she smiled at the couple.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," Mary thanked as she and John walked up the stairs.

* * *

Sherlock stopped in the middle of what he was doing, which was an experiment in the kitchen. His fine ears heard familiar steps on the staircase. Molly, who was curled on the couch, comfortably wrapped in a blanket, dropped her book on her lap when she noticed him not hustling and bustling.

"Something wrong?" Molly asked.

Sherlock grinned. "They're coming."

"Who?" Molly asked just as John and Mary walked into the flat. "Oh!"

Sherlock pulled off his rubber gloves and set his bubbling beaker down on the counter. He stepped into the living room. "John, Mary. I take it you two are-"

"Back together!" John finished.

Molly gave a genuinely happy smile to Mary, who gave her a quick thumbs up in return. Mary laughed. "Guess this means we have to plan the wedding all over again."

John groaned. "Sherlock, Molly, how much did you guys manage to get back from all the refunds?"

Molly and Sherlock exchanged a knowing look and smirk with each other. "Actually," Sherlock said, glancing at the calendar, "Your wedding is next week."

"What?" Mary exclaimed.

"Yeah," Molly added sheepishly. "We just continued planning it for you guys."

"See Molly, I told you next week would be good date." Sherlock faced Mary and John. "She thought it would take longer for you to make up," he scoffed.

"So you just continued planning our wedding, without the bride or groom's knowledge?" John asked incredulously. Everyone chuckled.

"So," Mary began. "Do we get to see what you've planned so far?"

"Oh no," Sherlock replied. "It's going to be a surprise. You'll see the wedding decorations when you get there."

John gave Mary's hand a squeeze, sensing her worry. Sherlock didn't seem to be too in touch with things like decorating and designing. Molly was a female, so she should have had some good instinct when it came to wedding planning, but Mary's thoughts jumped to her questionable sweaters and jumpers that Molly was so fond of wearing. Mary immediately set her expectations low; she and John were finally getting married, that was what was important. It didn't matter how bad or tacky the wedding looked like, right?

* * *

The rest of the evening was spent in celebration. Laughter, good food, violin playing, filled the warm flat of 221b. Sherlock and John went for a quick errand to go buy some ties for the wedding, and Mary and Molly were left alone in the living room. Molly was finally comfortable and fully trusting of Mary after John's and Sherlock's forgiveness, and Mary seemed to feel the same with Molly. The two sat in comfortable silence, sipping tea and staring at the roaring fireplace, engrossed within their own thoughts. Night had already fallen and the light of the moonlight and fire cast a nice glow and atmosphere into the flat.

Mary spoke up. "Molly, can I ask you something?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. Anything," Molly replied in surprise.

"I think you would be the first female friend I've ever trusted. No one else knows who I really am."

Molly smiled. "Thank you. So what's the question?"

"Will you be my maid-of-honor?" Mary asked hopefully.

A wide smile appeared on Molly's face. "Of course!" She suddenly moved from her position and hugged Mary tightly. The surprised Mary nearly spilled her tea before returning the embrace.

Mary smiled. So this was what it felt like to have a true friend. "Guess we have to dress shopping soon!"

* * *

 **So there's that! This chapter was more light-hearted, the next few ones will probably be too. But after that, it's all going to blow down. Hope you look forward to it, and please leave a review!**


	15. Sign of Three

**Good day lovely readers! And if you're not having a good day, I hope this chapter cheers you up somewhat. Sorry for the late update! I've had quite a lot on my hands as of late. Interview preparation, calculus and biology tests, birthday party, science fair, and all that good stuff. Most of which I regret doing. Well, anyway, here's the chapter!**

* * *

 _From this day forward, you shall not walk alone. My heart will be your shelter, and my arms will be your home._

* * *

"Here we are!" Sherlock announced as he opened up the doors with a bang and a grand flourish. Sherlock and Molly eagerly watched the John and Mary's faces, which were both filled with astonishment and awe.

"W-wow," John breathed. This was better than anything he could have hoped for, anything he could have possibly planned on his own.

Mary stared at the room in front of her with her mouth agape, totally transfixed. So _this_ was how Molly –the fashionably questionable woman who bought most of her clothes from thrift stores– and Sherlock –the man who didn't care about who slept with who, the recent news, much less the latest trends in decoration– would plan a wedding.

"Close your mouth, Mary, you'll catch flies," Sherlock said with a grin.

A tear welled up in Mary's eye. "This is...perfect. Thank you," she whispered.

Molly giggled at their reaction. She knew they would be happy, but she wasn't expecting them to be completely awestruck and speechless.

Mary was the first one to take further steps into the elegant room. Rich, golden sunlight was streaming in every one of the numerous windows and perfectly complemented the yellow painted walls to create a joyous atmosphere. She clasped her hands over her mouth, walking across the expanse of the room and gazing at the bouquets of flowers on the pristine white tablecloths. She glanced around, wondering if there was anything Sherlock and Molly had missed in their planning.

There wasn't. Trust Sherlock to be the studious in planning, not forgetting a single detail of the wedding. All the name-cards were in their place, every seat had an Opera House serviette, folded by Sherlock no doubt. Dust had been cleared, chairs arranged neatly, exactly 90 degrees to the tables.

Mary turned to the others who were still standing by the doorway and grinned widely. _Today_ was her wedding day. And she never felt more euphoric in her life.

* * *

Zip. Molly hurriedly squeezed into her bridesmaid gown after she just helped Mary put on her wedding dress. She stepped into her shoes and then ran to the ceremony, hoping that her hair and makeup wouldn't be ruined in the process.

She slowed down as she approached the side door and then poked her head through. The guests were still chatting, but it seemed that she was the last bridesmaid to show up. Molly straightened her dress and then stepped through the doors, proceeding to the alter.

Sherlock chuckled as he caught sight of Molly walking through the side doors. Judging by the fairly rapid rising and falling of her chest and the warm rosy color spreading across her cheeks, Molly had probably ran all the way here. Sherlock glanced at his watch. Just in time too, the ceremony was about to start in two minutes. She stepped in her rightful spot next to where Mary would stand. John briefly nodded to her and then resumed his task of staring at the door, waiting for the moment the love of his life would walk through. Sherlock caught Molly's eye and gave her a smile as the wedding march started playing.

All eyes turned toward the doors at the end of the chapel. The ebony doors opened to reveal an elegantly dressed Mary with a bouquet in hand.

Molly internally squealed as Mary marched down the aisle in time with the music. She looked even more perfect and beautiful than Molly remembered her being in the dressing room. The sunlight delicately spread itself across Mary's figure, and her glowing smile was her best accessory.

Mary stepped up on the alter next to John, and the pair had eyes for no one else but each other.

The preacher began his sermon, and then began the process of entwining Mary and John's lives together in holy matrimony.

* * *

"You may now kiss the bride."

Upon hearing these words, John's arm curled around Mary's waist and he dipped her, much to her delight. When their lips met, the audience cheered and hollered quite vigorously for far much more time than Sherlock thought was necessary.

The crowd then proceeded to a grand room and all sat down where their names were labelled. They ate through three courses and drank lots of champagne as Mary and John threaded their way around the room occasionally to check up on everyone.

A scarred, man in a uniform caught Mary's eye. She motioned John over. "Oh, is that...?"

John grinned widely at the close friend he had spent quite a bit of time with recently. "Major Sholto!" John gently tugged Mary's wrist and led her over to the table where he was seated. The major promptly stood up and the two men gave a hearty salute to one another.

Major Sholto raised his eyebrows at Mary. "And John, I presume this is..."

"Mary!" John smiled. "Yeah, this is the woman I told you about."

Mary took a nervous gulp of her wine glass and then pulled a disgusted face. Eugh. The wine did not taste good. She smiled timidly at Major Sholto, wondering what John could have said to the man while they were on break.

"Nice to meet you Major," Mary said sweetly.

The man stood up and shook Mary's hand. "And to you."

John grinned, glad that his former captain and wife finally got to meet. He glanced at the clock. "Oh! We should get over to the head table now, it's time for the best man speech!" He took Mary's hand and led her to their seats as Mary cast one last smile at the Major.

Molly and Sherlock were already seated beside the bride and groom seats, and the head waiter tapped a spoon against a champagne glass to get everyone's attention. "Pray silence for the best man," he stated.

A hush swooped across the room as all eyes turned expectantly to Sherlock. John grinned at the man to his left and gave him a clap on the shoulder before Sherlock rose to stand up.

Molly hid her giggles behind her hand as everyone clapped. Sherlock looked _so_ uncomfortable. She was sitting to his left.

Sherlock began, "Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, and, erm...others." He stopped and blinked as an awkward silence ensued. "Er...a-a-also..."

Molly looked at him, concerned, then whispered, "Telegrams," expecting beforehand that this situation would probably occur.

Sherlock seemed to jolt out of his blankness. "Right, um." He patted his pockets, then realized that the pile of telegrams were in front of him. "First things first. Telegrams." He picked up the cards and showed them to the guests.

Sherlock proceeded to read the telegrams out loud. "To Mr. and Mrs. Watson. So sorry I'm unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck and best wishes, Mike Stamford."

"To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big...big squishy cuddles, from Stella and Ted." Sherlock frowned, while Greg sniggered and Molly smiled.

Sherlock continued and picked up the next card. "Oodles and love and heaps of good wishes from Cam." Molly's smile quickly faded and she stiffened up when she heard the name.

"Special day..." Sherlock dropped that card and looked at the next one. "Very special day..." He dropped that one too and continued to work rapidly through the rest of the cards, saying only one or two words from each.

Satisfied with finishing, he looked up at the audience and gestured to John. "John Watson. My friend, John Watson. When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused. I confess at first I didn't realize he was asking me. When I finally understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and...surprised."

John smiled as he remembered the time when he had asked Sherlock the big question.

"I explained to him that I had never expected this request and I was a little daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was, for me, as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated. Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he had placed in me..."

John frowned, not remembering these words ever coming out of Sherlock's mouth at that time.

"...And indicated that I was, in some ways, very close to being...moved by it. It later transpired that I had said _none_ of this out loud."

John laughed, and several guests joined in.

Sherlock glanced at his cue cards, and saw that he had done most of them. He looked up at the guests again, and then to John.

"Let's talk about John. If I burden myself with a little help-mate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice, it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me. Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides."

John sighed heavily, while Mary and Molly frowned.

"...and contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation, or it _would_ be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot."

Molly faced-palmed and John half-hid behind his clasped hands.

"The point I'm _trying_ to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous..."

He turned to Molly. "...unaware of the beautiful..."

Sherlock turned to Mary and John. "...and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend."

The guests fell silent as they listened to Sherlock.

"Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

Mary smiled proudly at her new husband and several of the guests exclaimed coos of "Awww!"

"Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, betrayal, and tragic loss. So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will _never_ let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."

Mrs. Hudson blinked rapidly and held a tissue to her eye as she heard Sherlock's words. Molly wiped the tears from her eyes with her serviette, and the several guests, even some of the men, sniffled.

Sherlock looked up and was alarmed to see so many of the guests crying. "What's wrong?" he asked quickly. "What happened? Why are you all doing that? John?"

Sherlock looked down at John. "Did I do it wrong?"

John laughed and stood up. "No, you didn't. Come here." John pulled Sherlock into a tight hug and the guests broke into applause.

* * *

In the foyer of the wedding venue, Sherlock and Molly were waltzing alone.

"One, two, three. Ahh, pretty good," Sherlock encouraged. "Just...hold your nerve on your turning."

"Why do we have to rehearse?" Molly asked.

Sherlock leaned into her. "Because we are about to dance together in public, and _your_ skills are appalling!" He said it in a playful tone and Molly laughed.

"Well, you're a good teacher."

"Mmm."

"And you're a brilliant dancer."

Sherlock spoke quietly, leaning into her again. "I'll let you in on something, Molly."

Molly whispered, "Go on, then."

"I _love_ dancing. I've always loved it."

"Seriously?" Molly laughed. "How did I not know this about you?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Never really comes up in crime work but, um, you know, I live in hope of the right case."

Molly smiled. "Well then, shall we go over it one more time?"

* * *

In the reception room, John and Mary were deeply looking into each other's eyes while dancing a slow waltz in the middle of the room to the sound of Sherlock's lone violin filling the air. John dipped her backwards and kissed her as the tune came to an end.

Sherlock stepped to the nearby microphone and the audience cheered for the couple's first dance and Sherlock's performance. "Ladies and gentlemen, just, one last thing before the evening begins. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, _always,_ for all three of you." Sherlock hesitated and then stuttered, "Er, I'm sorry. I mean two of you. All _two_ of you. Both of you, in fact, I've just miscounted."

Sherlock withdrew in a sharp breath as John and Mary exchanged confused looks. Sherlock turned to the DJ. "Anyway, it's time for dancing. Play the music again please, thank you."

Sherlock stepped off the stage and walked over to John, Mary, and Molly, who were all looking quizzically at him.

"Sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting."

"Deduction?" Molly asked.

Sherlock looked intensely at Mary. "Increased appetite, change of taste perception, and you were sick this morning. You assumed it was just wedding nerves. You got angry with me when I mentioned it to you. All the signs are there."

John raised his eyebrows. "The signs?"

"The signs of three." Sherlock dropped his gaze to Mary's abdomen.

"What?!" Mary exclaimed.

"Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test."

Molly clasped her hand over her mouth and gave Mary a congratulatory hug. John sighed. "How did _he_ notice before me? I'm a bloody doctor."

"It's your day off."

"It's _your_ day off!" John retorted.

Sherlock simply smiled happily at him. John finally laughed and reached to give Sherlock a hug as well.

"Dance," Sherlock commanded abruptly.

"Mm?"

"Both of you, now, go dance. We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we're talking about."

"Right," John said as he led Mary away to the dance floor.

Molly stepped closer to Sherlock's side and watched with him as the couple walked away.

Sherlock didn't seem that he was going to do anything anytime soon, so Molly held her hand out to him and spoke up.

"May I have this dance?" she asked.

Sherlock smiled to her and took her hand.

* * *

 **Oodles of love and many big, squishy hugs to the readers ;) Hope you enjoyed this chapter. I cut some stuff out of the original Sign of Three plot, and added more Sherlolly. Next chapter...is the reveal of Molly's dark secret! I think, I still haven't decided yet. But hopefully yes. I know you've been waiting awhile for its unveiling, but most of you guys might have figured it out. Until next time!**

* * *

 _My love for you is a journey, starting at forever and ending at never._


	16. Secrets

_"The greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places." -Roald Dahl_

* * *

Molly stepped onto the Watsons' front porch, her hands twiddling with the miscellaneous items in her coat pocket. She had been itching to talk with Mary all week, but she had to wait until she and John were back from their honeymoon first. Despite her deep anxiety, a corner of her mouth lifted as she remembered planning the romantic honeymoon with Sherlock.

* * *

 _Months ago_

"Should we really be planning the honeymoon?" Molly asked dubiously.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied, looking up from a hotel catalog. "How can you have a wedding without a honeymoon planned for after?"

"Well, first of all, we don't know if John and Mary will get back together in time for the wedding, much less the honeymoon."

"Well, _if_ Mary and John don't get back together in time, which I doubt, _we_ can always go on it," he said with a smile and wink.

Molly laughed and threw a couch pillow at him, but she stopped protesting the planning of a honeymoon after his comment.

* * *

Molly reached out a finger and pressed the doorbell. She wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to keep warm in the chilly weather, pacing back and forth as she anxiously waited for Mary to come to the front door. She knew John would be out with Sherlock on a case, so Molly didn't have to worry about anyone interrupting her much needed talk with Mary.

The dull, dark green front door swung open to reveal a beaming Mary, who was already noticeably pregnant.

"Molly! What a pleasant surprise. Come in, it must be freezing out there!" Mary said.

"Thanks." Molly hurriedly rushed in, eager to get away from the cold.

"Sit in the living room, I'll go make you some tea." Mary rushed off to the kitchen.

Molly sat herself down on a couch and rubbed her cold hands together. Normally, she would have felt at ease in the Watsons' home, but today, she felt out of place and awkward. She came to ask Mary about one thing in particular: Cam. Molly had spent a blissful few months with Sherlock planning the wedding, but she sensed that the era of peace would be disturbed when she heard the telegram from Cam at the wedding. The gnawing feeling of fear and anxiety crept back into her heart, and the burden of carrying a dark secret on her shoulders became too much to bear. Molly had to confess. She had to tell someone. And with Mary's past as an assassin, Molly could think of no one better to ask for help and advice on.

Mary came in a few moments later and set down a steaming cup of tea in front of Molly. She set herself down on the seat across from Molly and curled her legs under her, blowing air at her tea in an attempt to cool it before drinking.

"So, Molly, what brings you here?" Mary asked.

Molly took a deep breath. Mary could tell that it was something serious, and that she had to tread her words carefully for the seemingly delicate situation.

Molly slowly began, "I've had something on my chest for a while." She stared at her steaming cup of tea the entire time, not wanting to look Mary in the eyes.

Mary took a sip of her drink, silently waiting for Molly to continue.

"Someone's been blackmailing me."

Mary's eyes widened, wondering what someone could possibly have on sweet Molly. Her first instinct was to ask: with what? But she sensed that she should wait to ask and that Molly would tell her when she was ready. So Mary simply asked, "And...how long has this been going on?"

"About a year now," Molly whispered.

"And you've kept this all to yourself? For all this time?" Mary asked. Molly looked down at her hands. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Mary asked more gently. Her eyes wordlessly spoke a more important question: why are you telling _me?_

"I didn't want anyone to know," Molly said quietly. Mary could feel the shame rolling off of her, the desire and need for her secret to stay a secret. "And I'm telling you, because, well, you've been blackmailed before, by Janine. You know what it's like to bury a dark secret. I didn't tell Sherlock, or anyone else because I didn't want them to look at me with shame or disappointment. I thought you would understand."

Mary smiled weakly. "Believe me, I understand." _But really,_ Mary thought, _what could be worse than trying to hide your past as an assassin?_

 _"_ Who is it?" Mary asked.

"I'm not sure. All I know is that they go by Cam." Hmm. That name sounded familiar to Mary.

Mary's eyes darkened. "And how has he been blackmailing you? Threatening you?"

Molly swallowed and fiddled with the handle on her mug. "So far, he's just threatened to spill my secret. Well, it was more implied." Molly started breathing rapidly and panicking. "And if my secret gets out, I'll lose my job, my life will be ruined, everyone will hate me-"

Mary held up a hand. "Well, hold on now. If you don't know exactly who he is, I can assume you two have never made direct contact with each other. How has he been communicating with you?"

"It first started with the night I was kidnapped in that van. I heard the kidnappers refer to their leader as Cam. Weeks passed, investigations were held, and I learned nothing about why I was kidnapped. I thought it was over when I came home one day and found a vase of red peonies on my coffee table."

Mary quirked an eyebrow. What was so special about red peonies?

Molly continued. "Red peonies were my dad's favorite flowers. There were red peonies scattered on every surface of my dad's funeral. Next to the vase, I found the set of keys I had lost weeks ago. To be exact, the keys I lost the day I was kidnapped."

"Well red peonies and lost keys aren't much to worry about," Mary tried reassuring.

"And under the vase was a picture of my dad," Molly said quietly. "Whoever this Cam was, wanted to show me that they could get in and out of my home with ease with my keys. And they knew something about my dad's death. I knew that whoever put the stuff there could break in again, so I put a vase with water on the table next to my living room window. I thought there would be the most likely place they would break in. It's awkward to get in through there, and I placed the vase in a way that the intruder would knock down the vase if they got in. The next morning, I found water on the floor from the vase."

Mary sucked in a breath. "That was Sherlock."

"What?"

"Um. The person who broke in and knocked down the vase. It was Sherlock," Mary admitted.

Molly stared at her. "And you know this because?"

"Well, months ago, Sherlock noticed something off about you. And he confessed to me and told me how he broke into your flat and found whatever he was looking for, he didn't tell me what it was though."

Molly blinked at her. "And you're only telling me now?"

"Well, I didn't think it was important. Sorry love, should have told you sooner. I didn't know you noticed or would be so worried about it," Mary apologized.

Molly sighed. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter now."

Mary nodded, signalling for Molly to continue. However, she was quite confused. What was so special about her dad's death? And still, what was Molly's secret? But Mary knew she shouldn't hurry or urge Molly. She needed to go at her own pace.

"Well, more weeks passed and I got no signs or messages. Until one night." Molly let out a shuddering breath. "I just got home from the pub, and I found Toby...dead. On my table. On the same spot as where I found the vase of red peonies."

Mary stared at Molly. She quickly closed her mouth when she realized that it was open. "And..." Mary whispered fearfully.

"And, I had a strong suspicion that Toby didn't die of natural causes. I took him to the hospital the next day and ran some tests on him. I found potassium chloride in his system."

Mary stared at her, not knowing what that meant.

"Fatal amounts."

Mary put a hand over her mouth. "And you think that Cam...?"

"I know it was Cam," Molly said tearfully. "It was his special way of reminding me of what happened with my dad. What I did to him."

"And you still don't know _why_ he's blackmailing you?"

"No." Molly squeezed her eyes shut and buried her head in her hands. "And then more months passed. They were peaceful. I was planning the wedding with Sherlock. And then, at your wedding, you and John received a telegram from Cam. He knew I would be there. I take it as a sign that my time of peace will be over."

Mary closed her eyes in remembrance. That was where she had heard the name Cam before, but it seemed like there was something else too...

There was a pause. Mary decided it was finally time to pop the big question. "Molly, what does your dad have to do with this? And what exactly does Cam have on you?"

"It's going to get me in jail." Tears started dripping from Molly's eyes.

"Molly?"

"Everyone will hate me if they find out." Molly's voice shook. "I hid it for so many years. Felt so much pain, burden, guilt." Sobs racked through Molly's frame.

"Molly," Mary repeated more gently. "What does Cam have on you?"

Molly finally lifted her head and looked Mary straight in the eyes.

"I killed my father."

* * *

 _"The prettiest smile hides the deepest secrets. The prettiest eyes have cried the most tears. And the kindest hearts have felt the most pain."_


	17. Mercy

_Ten years ago_

That day started out quite nicely. Despite all the troubles Molly was going through, she tried her best to be optimistic. Molly saw the world in such beautiful clarity. Sunlight streaming through the windows cast the most wonderful golden glow on everything it touched, and she found everything to be quite breathtaking, even the smudges on the wooden floor and the dust bunnies that littered throughout, for the golden rays emitted a filter in which no ugly could be seen. And despite her dad being in the hospital, and despite her family's financial stress, she still managed to find joy in the little things.

Molly went through her usual morning routine. Brushed her teeth, ate breakfast, got dressed. She then took a cab to the hospital where she was interning, having recently gotten out of medical school. And as she sat in the car, a pit of anxiety and fear grew in her chest, as it did every morning. Would her dad be worse today? Was this the last day she would get to see him? What will his last words be?

And like she did everyday, Molly rushed in through the hospital doors, checked in, and ran to her dad's room, fearful of what she would find. That day, she found him sleeping. He seemed to sense her presence as Molly entered the room, because his eyes fluttered open and met her worried ones.

His face was lit with cheerfulness when he saw his daughter. "Molly, dear! So glad to see you."

"Hey dad," Molly greeted as she walked over and hugged him. Just as she pulled away, her father's frail body was wracked with a series of violent coughing. "Dad? Are you okay?" she asked, panicking.

He gave her the usual reply. "I'm fine."

"I'll get you some water, dad." She left his side and went to fetch water. When she came back, Molly paused at the door, her body hidden behind a curtain. She stared at her dad. He most definitely was not okay. Pain was etched on his face, and fatigue cloaked over his features. Molly almost dropped the glass in surprise. She had never seen my father like this. Not once. No matter what, he was always cheerful, always lovely. And then a realization dawned on her. _When he thinks no one can see._ But here, now, when there was no one around to see him. Dad didn't look cheerful. He looked sad. And Molly felt a pain sting in her chest and a tear fall down onto her cheek. Molly rushed forward, put the glass down on the table, and wrapped her arms around his neck, sobbing.

"Dad!"

"Molly! What's all this about?" he said, the false cheeriness back in his voice.

She pulled back, scanning his face. "Dad, are you okay?" Molly asked earnestly. "And don't just say you are. Because I know how you feel when you think no one else can see you."

Dad sighed, the mask of loveliness no longer on his face. His physiognomy expressed what he truly felt, and his pain and despair were laid out before his daughter to see. "Molly," his voice cracked. "I don't want to do it anymore."

Molly widened her eyes, confused.

"I _can't_ do it anymore. I can't take it anymore. The tests, the chemotherapy, the hopelessness, the pain. I want it to stop."

Molly reached a hand over and wiped a tear that emerged from his eye. "Dad? What are you saying? You just have to hang in there, you'll make it."

"Molly, no," he said, gently removing her hand from his face. "I know my body. And it's gone far past the point of no return. All _this,"_ he said, gesturing towards all the IV bags and machinery around him, "is just a temporary method of sustaining my life, and prolonging my suffering."

"B-but. I don't want you to leave me," Molly whispered desperately.

Her dad smiled. "And that, my darling, is the sole reason I have fought to this day. But I can't do it anymore."

"What are you saying?" Molly asked.

Her father's hand drooped to the side and the heart monitor picked up to dangerous levels. He clutched his chest and wheezed, struggling to breathe. A group of nurses rushed into the room to aid him. As a woman pulled a shocked Molly away, she made out words forming on her dad's lips. "Please, end it."

* * *

Molly sat in the hallway near her dad's room. Not even in a chair, just on the cold, hard floor. A nurse came out and stooped down to talk to her. "Chin up, Hooper. He's going to be okay." Molly blankly stared at her as she got up and walked away. "He's not okay," she muttered to herself.

The rest of the day, she finished her interning duties at the hospital, not visiting her dad once. The enormity of what he had asked of her hung heavy on her soul. She couldn't. She can't and she won't. Is what she thought at first. But as the long day crept on, thoughts of _how_ to do it crept into her head, much to her horror. Every time she came across a chemical or drug, _an overdose of that should do it._ And then she would shudder, and scorn herself for having such thoughts. There was no way. The drugs were just affecting her dad's morale and mental state, he just needed to fight a little more and then he would be fine. But she knew that was just a feeble attempt of her subconscious trying to console her. All the doctors said that there was very little chance of him improving. Her thoughts crept back to the pain she saw on his face.

Someone was calling her name.

Molly jolted upright and looked into the eyes of her boss. "Molly? I've been calling your name for ages! You must be tired. It's time to leave!" The doctor kindly put a hand on her shoulder. "Go home and get some rest."

Molly nodded, and went to go get her stuff and leave. She arrived home later, her head still in a foggy state of mind. Her mother greeted Molly from her place in the living room, and Molly nodded blankly and went to go prepare for bed. She needed some sleep.

* * *

Sleep came and left her multiple times that night. She flipped and turned constantly in bed as troubled dreams haunted her. As her subconscious pulled her under, another dream claimed her thoughts. This one she recognized as an incident from her childhood that happened when Molly was six.

* * *

 _I was sitting in the back seat of my dad's car. We were returning home from a fairly uneventful camping trip. I was pressing my hands against the windows, avidly taking in all the sights of the forest going by as my dad drove down the old road. A sudden and rough bump cause me to fall back on the seat cushions. I heard my dad cussing under his breath as he opened the door and stepped out. I followed suit, wondering what the bump had been. He was standing in front of the car, looking sad and guilty._

 _I popped up behind him and gasped at the sight before me. There was a deer, lying on its side in front of our car, blood gushing from a large wound in its side. It breathed heavily as it warily looked at us. "Dad can we save it?"_

 _He shook his head regretfully. "No, darling, the wound is too bad." He walked around to the trunk of the car and retrieved something. I stayed, staring at the deer, whispering comforting words to it, naively thinking that it could hear and understand me. My dad came back with an ax in his hand. I looked up at him._

 _"Dad?"_

 _"Molly," he said, returning my gaze. "When you see an animal suffering, with no hope of it getting better, you must put it out of its misery."_

 _I stared at him with wide eyes. "Oh," I said quietly._

 _"Get back in the car, Molly."_

 _I silently obeyed and climbed in, burying my head in between my knees. I heard a thunk, and then something being dragged. Dad returned a few minutes later and continued driving. We didn't say anything. We just continued along our journey._

* * *

Molly awoke that morning, the dream still fresh in her mind. She glanced at the clock. One minute before the alarm. She reached an arm out and switched it shut before it could sound. She rolled back over and stared at the ceiling with resignation in her chest and coldness in her heart.

That day, the sunlight seemed to lack warmth. It was too bright, casting a blinding glare over everything and bathing everything in an ugly filter. The harsh light emphasized the numerous dust bunnies, the dirty smudges on the floor. The entire world was cruel, and everything seemed to be mocking Molly. She got up, got dressed, and went about her usual routine, her usual optimism and energy lacking in her movements. Her lackluster spirit was noticed by her mother, who cast a concerned glance at her daughter as she put on her coat.

"Everything okay, dear?" her mother asked.

"Yeah, mom. Everything's fine," Molly said, repeating the words her father told her multiple times, hiding the truth. _Everything's fine._

Molly arrived at the hospital twenty minutes later. She stood outside her father's room, just out of his view. She studied his sleeping form, how misery wrapped around his body like a constant companion, and how pain stood out more in his features than wrinkles. For a moment, she stepped into his shoes. Being in this grim, dim room every hour of every day, pain so harsh that morphine hardly helped, and nothing left to live for, not even loved ones.

She stepped into the room and went to his bedside. His eyes fluttered open, sensing her, how, she didn't know, because she was sure that she was being silent.

The worry in his eyes seeped away. "Molly, I'm sorry about yesterday, I could never put that kind of responsibility on you, I wasn't in my right m-"

Molly held up a hand, silencing his lames excuses.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

Her dad paused, surprised that Molly had the courage to even consider going through with it. "Death will be my mercy. No more chemo. No more pain. Peace."

Molly got up and wordlessly left the room. Over the next few days, she arranged and planned everything. She had family and friends come in for a subtle last visit, and she made everything as comfortable for her father as possible for his last days on earth.

On the last day, Molly came into the room with a fluid bag in her hand. It was the middle of the night, and her dad was sleeping peacefully in his bed. Molly stepped over, observing him. The pain and worry from his face were gone from the knowledge that he would soon be gone from the world. She hooked up her bag of potassium chloride to his IV rack. The chemical was being used as dialysis treatment while her dad had chemotherapy, and a slight overdoes wouldn't look too out of the ordinary.

Her father's breath hitched and he jolted awake. He recognized the figure in the dark as his daughter and grabbed her wrist with a surprising amount of strength. "Molly," he whispered. "Thank you." He felt warm droplets of water hit his hand from Molly's tears. "And stay strong, everything will be...alright." The heart monitor stopped beeping. Molly wiped her tears away and clumsily removed all traces of evidence that this was nothing but a natural death. She hurried out of the room, out of the hospital, and into the embrace of the pitch black night.


	18. Cam

"The next morning, my mom burst through my room in tears, telling me what happened to dad over the night," Molly said. She was no longer crying, simply just stating the facts. Her voice was raw and monotone, and it broke Mary's heart that Molly had to go through something like that alone. "I played the part. I cried at the funeral. I grieved. I acted like none of it was my fault. But it was. Everything was my fault. Do you know how much it killed me to watch my family and his friends grieve?"

Mary reached out a hand to touch Molly's. Mary's thoughts flitted back to Sherlock's supposed "death". John was complaining to her that Molly knew that the detective was still alive, which greatly surprised and angered him. He saw Molly at the funeral and somewhat regularly at the hospital, and no one thought Molly was capable of such deceit, the girl was an awful liar after all. Mary sighed. Molly pulled off her acting about Sherlock's death because it wasn't the first time she had done so.

Mary awkwardly got up with a hand on her belly and pulled Molly in for a hug, who stiffened.

"Mary?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Don't you hate me? Don't you find me despicable?"

Mary laughed. "Molly, you're talking to an ex-assassin. I thought that's why you came to me in the first place?"

Molly relaxed in Mary's embrace. "Yes, but. I killed someone that I loved. Someone near and dear to me."

Mary leaned back and looked in Molly's face. "You did it out of mercy."

"But...if I had waited. Maybe dad would have gotten better. Maybe it was just the drugs that was confusing him. Maybe he wasn't in his right mind. If I had just-"

Mary stopped Molly gently. "If you had waited, your dad would have suffered needlessly in pain." Mary frowned. "Thank you for telling me, trusting me with this. But now, we have to figure out what to do about your blackmailer."

Molly shuddered. "I honestly don't even know how he, or she, found out. And I don't know what to do."

"You have to tell Sherlock," Mary said.

Molly's eyes widened. "No! I can't!" She grabbed Mary's hands. "Please, Mary, don't tell anyone. If anyone found out, they would hate me."

Mary sighed. "Molly, _I_ know, and I don't hate you."

Molly shifted uncomfortably. "Yes but, but you're..." Her words trailed off.

Mary internally cringed. "Yes. I'm the ex-assassin. I've killed so much more. I have much more blood on my hands." Mary turned away. "But that doesn't change the fact that Sherlock is probably your best bet right now. You have to tell him at least that you are being blackmailed. You can tell him the secret itself when you're ready." She glanced at Molly's shamed face. "...if ever," Mary added. "You can't let this blackmailer control your life."

"Thanks, Mary." Molly glanced at the clock. "I have to go now. I want to do some thinking, alone." She got up, reached for her coat, and headed towards the door.

"Remember what I said," Mary called after her. "Your actions were justified, and you have to get some help."

Molly nodded, opened the doors, and walked into the night.

* * *

Sherlock twisted the key in the door, and stepped in, not bothering to wait for John who had grumbled about having to pay the for the cab again. Sherlock shrugged his coat off and hung it on the rack by the door. John came in a beat later. The pair had just come from a finished case that was not quite exhilarating as Sherlock would have liked it to be, but John insisted because it was good pay. Sherlock turned and mounted the stairs and John followed him. Sherlock's keen eyes glanced at the steps in the darkness. He noticed a few details here and there and deduced that there was someone in the flat. Sherlock mumbled quietly to John.

"There's someone waiting for us upstairs."

John raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word. Sherlock continued his walk up the stairs at the same fairly quick rate, not wanting to alert the person in his flat that he noticed their presence. Thoughts raced and flew through his mind. A client was here. Sherlock was musing about how exactly they got in when he stepped into the living room.

And for the first time in a very long time, Sherlock was shocked. He faltered at the doorway when he saw the sight of Molly sitting in a stool in the center of the room. Molly sat with her back stooped and her head resting in her hands. Her eyes warily looked up at him and John, waiting for them to say something.

As Sherlock stood there, unsure of what to do, a realization dawned upon John. Molly was sitting in the same chair that Mary sat in all those months ago. Molly was sitting in the chair all the clients sat in. An unpleasant memory replayed in his mind.

 _Sit. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk, and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not._

John took a seat in his usual armchair and waited for Sherlock to do the same. The detective waited a moment, and then fluidly sat in his place.

"So," John began, "tell us your case."

* * *

Molly had left long ago, yet Sherlock and John remained in their seats in the living room, deep in contemplation.

An odd feeling sat in John's chest. Throughout Molly's presentation of her problem, Sherlock and John treated her just like a client. John had even only addressed her as Ms. Hooper instead of Molly. John jotted down some notes, and Sherlock was quiet throughout the entirety of the event. Molly had told them the bare minimum, that someone that went by Cam knew her secret, a secret that Molly preferred not to have known by the world.

The entire time she avoided Sherlock's gaze, and spoke mainly to John. At the end of it all, he promised they would help and she left. John tried to ask Sherlock about how he felt about all this, but John might as well have been asking a brick wall because the detective never answered.

After what seemed like a long time, John fell asleep in his chair. When he awoke in the morning, a crick had appeared in his neck and the detective had disappeared.

Days passed. Molly was hiding in her apartment and John had no idea where Sherlock was, but he checked into the flat daily to see if the detective had shown up. He didn't.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was doing some detective work on his own. He needed to think, and think on his own. Molly Hooper. His beloved Molly Hooper had a secret. He considered doing some snooping around to find out what the secret was, but a voice in his mind urged him not to. He made a vow to himself not to ever lose Molly again, and he wouldn't dare go and disrespect her wishes and risk losing her in the process.

It had hurt him a bit that Molly waited so long to tell him. And to channel that hurt and pain away, he focused his energy on the being that dared try to threaten Molly, Cam. Just thinking about the man made Sherlock tighten his fist and his blood pressure rise.

The past few days proved to be quite successful. Sherlock recognized the name Cam from CAM Global News, the building he and John broke into a few months prior. Molly was being blackmailed. Lady Smallwood was being blackmailed. Sherlock connected the dots and figured that the only other person in that building with significant enough power was Charles Augustus Magnussen. Sherlock frowned. His pride was injured when he had pointed the wrong finger at Janine, accusing her of blackmailing Lady Smallwood.

Sherlock did his research, and found some very interesting tidbits of information about Magnussen. For one thing, he was so much more than just a newspaper owner. Magnussen used his power and wealth to gain information; the more he acquired, the greater his wealth and power. Charles Augustus Magnussen knew the critical pressure point on every person of influence in the whole of the western world and probably beyond. He was the Napoleon of blackmail. Sherlock grimaced as he thought of Magnussen. The detective had dealt with murders, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. Yet none of them could make his stomach turn like Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Sherlock was currently on the way to meet with his older brother Mycroft. He had a few questions to ask the man who was the British government.

* * *

The two Holmes brothers were in Mycroft's office, engaged in a heated debate after Sherlock stormed in, shooed all the government officials and executives out who were in the middle of a meeting, and demanded to speak to his brother alone.

"Magnussen is not your business," Mycroft stated sternly to Sherlock.

"Oh, you mean he's _yours,"_ Sherlock retorted.

"You may consider him under my protection."

"I consider you under his thumb," Sherlock replied vehemently.

Mycroft placed his palms on his desk and leaned forward. He spoke quietly and ominously. "If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against _me."_

Sherlock snorted. "Okay. I'll let you know if I notice." He turned his back on Mycroft and left the room with his usual dramatic flare.

* * *

Sherlock returned to his flat and found John in his chair, reading a book. Sherlock sat across from him and explained everything that he knew about the situation to John.

"You recall that case with Lady Smallwood?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. The one with...Janine."

"Precisely. Well, obviously she wasn't Lady Smallwood's blackmailer, Magnussen was. Magnussen is also Molly's blackmailer. I've arranged a meeting with him. I'm going to pursue Lady Smallwood's case."

"But what about Molly?" John asked.

"If I can figure out where Magnussen is keeping Lady Smallwood's letters, then I can also find out where he's keeping Molly's. We don't want to draw any attention to her," he said quietly. John nodded.

Sherlock pulled out his laptop and opened up a few pictures of Magnussen's home. "He is the Napoleon of blackmail and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name is Appledore. It is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world, the Alexandrian Library of secrets and scandals, and none of it is on a computer. He's smart, computers can be hacked. It's all on hard copy in vaults underneath that house. And as long as it is, the personal freedom of anyone you've ever met is a fantasy."

The two heard a knock on the door downstairs. Mrs. Hudson shortly after poked her head in the living room.

"Oh, that was the doorbell. Couldn't you hear it?"

"Who is it?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs and answered the door. "Mr. Holmes said you can go right up."

Three men in dark suits walked up the stairs, followed by a fourth man wearing eye glasses. The three men were clearly security guards. Sherlock and John were standing with their backs toward the fireplace and the men faced them.

Sherlock spread his arms. "Oh, go ahead." A guard searched him and John followed in Sherlock's example and allowed a guard to search him as well. The third guard looked generally around the room.

Sherlock stared at the fourth man who was standing still on the other side of the room, watching him.

"Mr. Magnussen, I understood we were meeting at your office."

Magnussen looked around the room. "This _is_ my office." He lazily walked around, picked up a newspaper lying on a table, and finally settled on the couch. "Well, it is _now._ "

"Mr. Magnussen, I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband's letters."

Magnussen seemed to be ignoring him, appearing to be more interested in the newspaper in his hand.

"Some time ago you...put pressure on her concerning those letters."

Magnussen finally looked up at him and leaned back in the sofa. He regarded the detective, recalling his information and pressure points.

 _Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective._

 _Pressure point: Irene Adler. Jim Moriarty. Redbeard. Hounds of the Baskerville. Opium. John Watson. Molly Hooper._

Sherlock continued. "Obviously the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind...I've been asked to act on behalf of-"

"Bathroom?" Magnussen interrupted.

A security guard motioned to his right. "Along from the kitchen, sir."

"Okay," Magnussen said.

Sherlock spoke more firmly. "I've been asked to negotiate the return of those letters. I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents."

Magnussen gestured around the living room. "Is it like the rest of the flat?" he asked the security guard.

"Sir?" the security guard asked.

"The bathroom?"

"Er, yes, sir."

"Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock asked.

Magnussen met his eyes for a moment and then turned his gaze toward the window. "If by Lady Smallwood you mean Molly Hooper," he got up and moved to stand in front of the fireplace, "and by letters you mean Molly's records," he unzipped his pants, "and by 'put pressure' you mean killing her cat." The sound of Magnussen urinating could be heard.

John rapidly blinked, simply appalled and half-turned his head toward Sherlock. Magnussen finished and zipped up his pants. He turned around and a security guard held out a packet of wet wipes. Magnussen took one, wiped his fingers, and dropped it on the floor.

Magnussen chuckled lightly. "Ms. Hooper could go to prison with the information I have on her." He licked his lips. "Tell her that I might need those records, so I'm keeping them." He stepped toward the doorway. and pulled out the edge of a packet of documents to show Sherlock. "And anyway, they're entertaining. Goodbye."

When the sound of feet were clattering was gone from the stairs, John moved forward and spoke furiously. " _Jesus!_ He wasn't fooled for one second by the Lady Smallwood act. He knows we're here for Molly. And he, he killed her cat?"

Sherlock walked across the room. "Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?"

"There was a moment that kind of stuck in the mind, yeah," John said, gesturing toward the fireplace.

Sherlock didn't notice the gesture. "Exactly, when he showed us the records."

"...okay," John said, confused. "I still don't know what those records are exactly. Molly never really went into detail about what Magnussen had on her."

Sherlock waved his hand like the details of the case didn't matter. "He brought the records to London. So no matter what he says, he's ready to make a deal."

Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed toward the stairs. "I'll see you later. I've got some Christmas shopping to do."

* * *

 **Hello everyone! I apologize for not updating for so long. I rewrote a large chunk of the chapter. Please tell me what you think of the chapter and leave a review! And polite, constructive criticism is always appreciated.**


	19. It Started With Forgiveness

Molly sat alone in the restaurant, sipping her tea and leaving the plate of food untouched before her. A smile twitched at her lips as a memory resurfaced in her mind. This was the restaurant she went to with her date a while back, the date during which Sherlock stormed and ruined by making rude deductions about the man Molly was with.

She sighed wistfully. That was the day it all started, the day Cam came into her life. Molly drummed her fingers onto the table. Now, wasn't that day a little less than a year ago?

A familiar detective suddenly appeared before her and sat opposite of her. "Ten months and sixteen days. That's how long ago since you went to this restaurant with that fool," he said as if reading her mind.

Molly rolled her eyes at his comment. Her date wasn't _that_ bad, but she would never admit to being slightly glad that Sherlock had come in and interrupted their date, otherwise she would have had to listen to her date drone on and on about his job, being a weatherman, and his mother, who he adored just a little too much for a grown man.

Sherlock picked up a fork and slid Molly's plate of uneaten food towards him. He had already plopped in a few bites into his mouth before asking if it were okay if he had some, to which Molly absentmindedly nodded.

It had been a few weeks since Molly had enlisted Sherlock and John's help in dealing with her blackmailer. And between Molly and Sherlock, it had been an unspoken agreement that their relationship would be on hiatus. So Sherlock had mainly been treating her like a distant friend and client, and Molly had not complained, she didn't want Sherlock's personal questions about her dilemma and secret. But with less interaction between the two lately, Sherlock didn't see the pain Molly felt about the whole situation or the guilt she had over not being able to tell him everything, and Molly didn't see Sherlock's hurt over her not trusting or confiding in him. Sherlock was never an expert at relationships or significant others, but wasn't that what they were supposed to do? Trust and confide in one another?

Sherlock didn't contact Molly much to update her on the information he acquired about her case, and when she was rarely updated, it was usually John who told her. The detective and John agreed that Molly should only know what was absolutely necessary to keep her safe from the threat of danger. Molly was told that tremendous progress had been made regarding the case, but she wasn't told who her blackmailer was, and Sherlock certainly did not even tell her _or_ John about the plan he had in mind.

Molly's gaze was still looking out the window at the many people passing by. Her stare flickered every once in a while to the ravenous detective forking down her dinner, and no doubt he knew even without looking when her eyes were upon him.

Sherlock finally looked up from his plate of food and met Molly's eyes. He raised an eyebrow. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Molly crinkled her eyes in frustration and then downcast her eyes. Still looking down, she asked, "What's going to happen to us?"

Sherlock leaned forward on his hands and elbows and regarded her carefully. His heart was a whirlpool of different emotions. Despite all they had gone through, from him hurting her to her hurting him, he still couldn't imagine a life without her. Well scratch that, he indeed could imagine a life without her, but he wouldn't w _ant_ a life without her. And in that moment, Sherlock decided that he didn't care about what Molly's secret was. He didn't care how bad a person she claimed to be. Her past was her past, and the Molly that Sherlock knew for the past few months, the past few years, _that_ was the Molly that was near and dear to him, and if anyone threatened the Molly he knew and loved, Sherlock would make sure that all hell would rain down. He let out a deep sigh, all the bitterness and hurt inside him leaving with the breath.

Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on Molly's. She looked up and saw that love and familiarity still remained in his eyes, even though his words and facial expression told a different tune, which was one of neutrality and sternness. "Let's discuss that after this case is over," he replied.

Molly gave a small smile; she could tell that Sherlock had something up his sleeve when he said so surely that the case would be over. She glanced at the antique clock on the wall. "Alright," Molly said, "I have to go now." She rose and bid him farewell. She stepped out of the restaurant with a mood much different than that of several months ago. Then, she had been infuriated at Sherlock and unsure of the world and her future. Now, she was confident and trusting in Sherlock's abilities, sure that he would make everything okay again.

Molly walked down the street, the weight on her chest lighter than it had felt in years.


	20. It's Christmas

"Oh, dear God, it's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas Day for at least a week now," Mycroft said wearily while rubbing one hand over his forehead. He sat at a large table in the middle of a kitchen inside a cottage that contained the entirety of the Holmes family, the Watsons, Bill Wiggins, and Molly Hooper.

Sherlock ignored his brother's remarks as he sat in an armchair nearby the table.

Mycroft continued in the same despairing tone. "How can it only be two o'clock? I'm in agony."

Mrs. Holmes pointed to a silver laptop on the table that was covered by a chopping board with peeled potatoes on top. "Mikey, is this your laptop?"

"On which depends the security of the free world, yes," Mycroft smiled rather sarcastically up at her, "and you've got potatoes on it."

"Well, you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important," she replied.

Mycroft gestured around the room. "Why are we doing this? We _never_ do this," he said, referring to the family gathering and Christmas celebration.

His mother leaned down on the table, and, looking exasperated, said, "We are here because Sherlock is fully healed from his wound and we are all very happy."

"Am _I_ happy too? I haven't checked."

Mrs. Holmes picked up a basket filled with bread and turned away. "Behave, Mike."

"Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end."

Bill Wiggins walked over and held out a glass of punch with fruit floating in it. "Mrs. Holmes?"

She turned and took it from him. "Oh! Thank you dear." She scrutinized him. "Not absolutely sure why you're here."

"I invited him," Sherlock stated.

"I'm his protege, Mrs. 'Olmes. When 'e dies, I get all 'is stuff, an' 'is job," Bill elaborated.

Mrs. Holmes looked at Bill, a little startled.

Sherlock, reading the paper, said without looking up, "No."

"Oh. Well, I help you out a bit," Bill said meekly."

"Closer," Sherlock said.

Mycroft said to Sherlock, " _Lovely_ when you bring your friends round."

Mrs. Holmes put her glass down. " _Stop_ it, you. Somebody's put a bullet in my boy, and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous." An envelope on the corner of the table caught her eye. "Ah. This was for Molly." She picked it up and walked away. "I'll be back in a minute."

Sherlock lowered his left hand and looked at his watch. 1 _7 minutes 37 seconds._

* * *

Mycroft and Sherlock stood outside the cottage near the gate. Each of them were holding a lit cigarette.

"I'm glad you've given up on the Magnussen business," Mycroft said.

"Are you?" Sherlock replied.

"I'm still curious, though. He's hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you...hate him?"

Sherlock turned to face his brother. "Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don't you?"

"He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He's far too intelligent for that. He's a business-man, that's all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil, not a dragon for you to slay."

"A dragon slayer. Is that what you think of me?"

"No. It's what you think of yourself."

The cottage door opened behind them and Mrs. Holmes popped her head out. "Are you two smoking?" she asked threateningly.

The two spun rapidly around to face her. "No!" they said quickly. She gave them each a suspicious look, then went back inside and shut the door.

Mycroft turned back around. "I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline."

"I decline your kind offer."

"I shall pass on your regrets."

"What was it?" Sherlock asked, curious.

"MI6. They want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months."

Sherlock looked surprised. "Then why don't you want me to take it?"

Mycroft turned to face him. "It's tempting, but you have more utility closer to home." He dropped his cigarette onto the ground and tread it out. "I'm going in."

"You need low tar. You still smoke like a beginner."

Mycroft slowed down and stop before he reached the front door. "Also, your loss would break my heart."

Sherlock choked and coughed on his cigarette. He turned to look at his brother, who was still facing the door. "What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!"

Mycroft turned around. "Merry Christmas?"

"You hate Christmas."

"Yes," Mycroft smiled. "Perhaps there was something in the punch."

"Clearly. Go and have some more."

Mycroft stepped into the cottage as Sherlock turned back around and contemplated.

* * *

In another room of the cottage sat Molly, Mary, and Mr. Holmes.

"Ah, Molly," Mrs. Holmes said as she walked in. "There you are." She nodded to Mary as she carried a mug to Molly across the room. "Cup of tea."

Mary held up the cover of the book she was reading. _The Dynamics of Combustion. M. L. Holmes._ "Did _you_ write this?" Mary asked Mrs. Holmes.

"Oh, that silly old thing. You mustn't read that. Mathematics must seem terribly fatuous now!" Mrs. Holmes said. She straighten her apron and left the room.

Mr. Holmes smiled at Mary. "Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius."

"She was a mathematician?" Molly asked.

"Gave it all up for children," Mr. Holmes said. "I could never bear to argue with her. I'm something of a moron myself. But she's..." he glanced around the room, then looked back at the two women. "...unbelievably hot!"

Molly and Mary covered their mouths and failed to suppress their giggles.

The door of the sitting room opened again and Sherlock strode through. He stopped and stared directly at Molly, who squirmed uncomfortably with Mary and Mr. Holmes looking at the scene.

Mary cleared her throat. "Um. I think I'm going to go get some tea."

"Yes! I'll go with you dear." Mr. Holmes walked over and helped Mary get up out of her seat, which proved somewhat a struggle with her large belly. The two hurried out of the room and left Molly and Sherlock. As Mary and Mr. Holmes walked down the hallway, he pointed a thumb over his shoulder to the room they just left. "Those two. They all right?"

"Well, you know. They've had their ups and downs."

* * *

Once alone, Sherlock broke into a smile, which Molly hesitantly returned. They had weeks of only professional and minimal interaction between them. And now, here they were, spending Christmas with his family. She wasn't even quite sure why she was invited, but Sherlock did so because he wanted to see her safe before he embarked on his most dangerous mission to date. He wanted to see her one more time.

Sherlock stepped closer and took Molly's hands in his. She slowly stood up, puzzled by his intentions. He placed a hand behind her head and pulled her in for a long, deep kiss. Molly froze at first, but she gradually returned his touch, the first intimate thing they had done in weeks.

"I love you, Molly."

"Sherlock..." Molly started to slump in his grasp. Sherlock took her weight and moved her to the nearby armchair. Molly was now unconscious.

The door opened and John briskly walked in. "Oi! What's going on? Everyone's falling asleep!"

"Don't drink the tea." Sherlock grabbed his scarf from the peg as he walked out. "Oh! Or the punch."

The two walked into the kitchen, where Mary, Mycroft, and his parents were all slumped where they were sitting. Billy was busy checking their breathing.

"Did you just drug my pregnant wife?" asked John.

"Don't worry. Wiggins is an excellent chemist."

"I calculated your wife's dose meself. Won't affect the little one. I'll keep an eye on 'er," Wiggins said confidently.

"He'll monitor their recovery. It's more or less his day job."

John stared at Sherlock. "What the hell have you done?"

Sherlock looked down reflectively, taking a moment to reply. "A deal with the devil." Sherlock moved toward Mycroft and slipped on black gloves.

"Oh, Jesus. Sherlock, please tell me you haven't just gone out of your mind."

Sherlock took the silver laptop from the table, pulling it from under Mycroft's unconscious head. "I'd rather keep you guessing."

John and Sherlock stepped out of the cottage, where a helicopter was approaching.

"There's our lift," Sherlock said.

The helicopter landed on the field in front of them. Sherlock unwaveringly walked towards it. "Coming?"

" _Where?_ "

"D'you want Molly to be safe?"

"Of course!"

They both turned toward the helicopter. "Good, because this is going to be incredibly dangerous. One false move and we'll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason. Magnussen is quite simply the most dangerous man we've ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us."

"But it's Christmas!" John protested.

"I feel the same." He turned and saw John's expression. "Oh, you mean it's actually Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?"

"Why would I bring my gun to your parents house for dinner?" John exclaimed.

"Is it in your coat?"

John sighed tetchily. "Yes."

"Off we go then." The two proceeded to the helicopter.

"Where are we going?"

"Appledore."


	21. The East Wind

Sherlock and John sat in the helicopter, looking at the large house below them as they descended. They landed on the grass and were led out by security men who then escorted them to the room containing Magnussen, who was waiting for them.

When Sherlock and John arrived in front of Magnussen, he nodded to his security and they abruptly left. Magnussen lifted his glass. "I would offer you a drink but it's very rare and expensive." Sherlock sat down on a sofa. Projected on a glass wall opposite of Magnussen was a footage playing Molly dragged into a van by a few men in dark clothing a few months back.

"Oh," Sherlock said calmly. "It _was_ you."

"Yes, of course," Magnussen replied. John looked back and forth between the two men. The footage continued with van crashing into a tree and Molly emerging from the wreck, shaken and bruised. "Your damsel in distress, rescued herself," Magnussen said with a slight hint of approval.

John glared at Magnussen. "You kidnapped Molly, for leverage? She could have died in that car accident!"

"Oh, I'd never let her die. I had people standing by." Magnussen looked at Sherlock. "I'm not a murderer, unlike your dear Molly."

The atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze. Sherlock sat rigid in his seat and John stood still. Magnussen continued. "Let me explain how leverage works, Sherlock. For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well, apart from me." Magnussen slowly walked the length of the room and then walked back. "Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock's pressure point is his beloved Molly. I own Molly," Magnussen turned to stare at Sherlock, "I own Mycroft. _He's_ what I'm getting for Christmas." Magnussen held his hand out to Sherlock.

Sherlock shoved the laptop across the sofa towards Magnussen. "It's an exchange, not a gift." Magnussen ran his fingers across the smooth covering of the laptop. "It's password protected," Sherlock added. "In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Molly Hooper."

Magnussen chuckled. "Oh she's not as good as you might think. She's bad, that one. You should have seen what I've seen."

"Then why don't you show us?" Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"Show you Appledore? The secret vaults? Is that what you want?"

Sherlock gazed at him intensely. "I want everything you've got on Molly."

Magnussen shook his head a little and chuckled for a few seconds. John gave a distasteful glance at him and exchanged a look with Sherlock. "You know, I honestly expected something good," Magnussen said after sniggering.

"Oh, I think you'll find the contents of that laptop-" Sherlock said.

"-include a GPS locator. By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived, they'll find top secret information in my hands and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I'll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with psychopaths. Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time. He'll be a very, _very_ proud big brother." Magnussen emptied his glass.

"The fact that you know it's going to happen isn't going to stop it," Sherlock said.

"Then why am I smiling?" Sherlock looked at Magnussen thoughtfully. "Ask me."

John took one step forward. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves and everything he holds dear." Magnussen stood up slowly. "Let me show you the Appledore vaults."

Magnussen led the others across the room and through the open glass doors of his study. He walked to a pair of wooden doors at the side of the room and turned back to the others while putting a hand on the doors. "The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep you all." He took a hold of the door handles and pulled the doors open. Magnussen stepped slowly through the doors as Sherlock and John looked uneasily around. Inside the doors was nothing but a small, white, windowless room. There were no shelves, no library stacks, no filing cabinets, no sculptures. The only thing that was in the room was a low chair, which Magnussen seated himself on.

"Okay," John said uncertainly. "So where are the vaults, then?"

Magnussen looked at him. "Vaults? What vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building." He gestured around the room. "They're all in here. The Appledore vaults are my Mind Palace. You know about Mind Palaces, don't you, Sherlock?" Sherlock widened his eyes as John frowned. "How to store information so you never forget it, by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes, and down I go to my vaults. I can go anywhere inside my vaults, my memories. You see?"

John cleared his throat. "So there are no documents. You don't actually have anything here."

"Oh, sometimes I send out for something, if I really need it. But mostly I just remember it all."

John shook his head. "I don't understand."

Magnussen looked at Sherlock. "It's all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is owning."

"But if you just _know_ it, then you don't have proof," John protested.

"Proof? What would I need proof for? I'm in news, you moron. I don't have to have to prove it, I just have to print it."

Sherlock looked downwards, realizing the gravity of his mistake.

Magnussen stood up and buttoned his jacket. "Speaking of news, you'll both be heavily featured tomorrow, trying to sell state secrets to me." He tutted disapprovingly and glanced at his watch. "Let's go outside, they'll be here shortly." He led them out of the room and to the patio in front of the lawn. "Can't wait to see you arrested."

John stepped close to Sherlock. "Do we have a plan?" Sherlock stared out into the distance, his gaze unfocused. "Sherlock." The detective still didn't reply.

"They're taking their time, aren't they?" Magnussen said, several feet away from them.

"I still don't understand," John said. "You just _know_ things. How does that work?"

"It works like this, John. I know who Molly hurt. I know where she killed. I know who to call, and with a little digging around, evidence will surface. Molly was quite careless in her cover up. All in my Mind Palace, _all of it._ " Sherlock gazed intently at Magnussen as he said those words. "I could phone right now and tear her life down. This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries, just because I know."

John and Sherlock stood staring at Magnussen as the sound of a helicopter approached. It soared over the roof as armed policemen ran towards the patio. Mycroft's voice blared out over a speaker on the helicopter. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Stand away from that man.

Magnussen grinned. "Here we go, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock stepped slightly closer to Magnussen. "To clarify: Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there."

"They're not real. They never have been," Magnussen answered.

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft's voice sounded over a speaker again. "Step away."

Magnussen walked forward a few steps. "It's fine! They're harmless!"

John turned toward his friend. "Sherlock, what do we do?"

Magnussen looked over his shoulder. "Nothing! There's nothing to be done. Oh, I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets. _You_ happen to be one of them!" He smiled smugly. "Sorry. No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock lifted his head. "Oh, _do_ your research." He stepped closer to John, reached into John's coat pocket, and stepped away again. "I'm not a hero, I'm a high-functioning sociopath." Magnussen widened his eyes as Sherlock glared at him. " _Merry Christmas!"_ Sherlock raised John's pistol, aimed it at Magnussen's head and then fired. Before Magnussen even hit the ground, Sherlock dropped the gun and turned to the helicopter with his hands raised.

"Stand fire!" Mycroft said frantically into his microphone. The policemen ran toward the patio and aimed their guns at Sherlock. "Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!"

John stared at Sherlock, his face full of anguish. "Oh, _Christ,_ Sherlock."

"Give my love to Molly. Tell her she's safe now." Sherlock kneeled down onto the patio, his head facing the helicopter.

"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?" Mycroft said softly.

* * *

A black car drove along a runway on which a jet was waiting. Mary and John stepped out of the car and ran to Sherlock, who was waiting beside the jet with Mycroft.

Sherlock smiled at Mary. "You will look after him for me, won't you?"

Mary hugged Sherlock. "Don't worry, I'll keep him in trouble."

Sherlock nodded and stepped over to John. "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson," Sherlock said to Mycroft and the security man beside him, "Would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mycroft nodded to the guard and they all left to the other side of the jet to give them privacy.

Sherlock turned to John when they were alone. He cleared this throat. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Sorry?" John said.

"That's the whole of it, if you're looking for baby names."

John chuckled. "No, we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl."

"Oh. Okay." They were silent for a few awkward moments.

"Is Molly-" Sherlock started.

"She's-" John said at the same time, knowing what Sherlock was dying to ask.

"Uh, go on," Sherlock urged.

"I called her. Left her messages last night and this morning. I don't think she's coming," John said apologetically.

Sherlock looked away, off into the distance. He and Molly hadn't talked since the night he shot Magnussen. Why would she want to talk to him? He murdered, for her. It probably wasn't something Molly would want, and something she could never forget. Sherlock caused only more darkness and black stains on her life.

"Do you want me to say anything to her? To Molly?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when he heard a familiar voice. He and John both turned around, disbelieving.

"Did I hear my name?" Molly said striding up to the pair.

John looked back at Sherlock and grinned. He clapped him on the shoulder and whispered, "Good luck." John then left the two alone.

Molly and Sherlock stared at each other until the silence grew uncomfortable.

"I can't think of a single thing to say," Molly said.

"No, neither can I."

"Thank you," Molly whispered. Her voice would have been inaudible if the wind had not carried it to his ears. "The game is over."

"The game is never over, Molly," Sherlock said firmly. "But there may be some new players now. It's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end."

"What's that?"

"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind, this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path." Sherlock looked into the distance, where the sun was setting over the horizon. "It seeks out the unworthy, and plucks them from the Earth."

Molly looked away ashamedly.

Sherlock, guessing her thoughts, said, "Molly, you're not unworthy." He took her hands and forced her to look him in the eye. "Whatever you did, that's in the past. Your worth is who you are now. And to me, now, you're worth the entire world. I'll never regret what I did Molly, not if it meant I could protect you."

Molly leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips. She leaned into his arms and they settled into an embrace.

"I love you Sherlock," she said, her voice muffled from his coat. "Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe," Sherlock said, sounding bored.

"For how long?"

Sherlock was glad her face was hidden in his coat, for he couldn't bear to look her in the eyes when he said this. "Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."

"And then what?" Molly asked, carefully disguising the sadness in her voice, not that it fooled Sherlock.

"Who knows?" He kissed the top of her head and gently pried her off him. He walked away from her towards the jet. "To the very best of times, Molly."

Molly and the others watched him step on board, and then fly off in the plane. Sherlock gazed out the window at his loved ones until they were into tiny dots.

* * *

Meanwhile in Britain, a short clip was being played all over the TV screens across the country. Within the clip, Jim Moriarty was staring into the camera and repeatedly asking, "Did you miss me?"

Mycroft sat in the back of his car with his phone up to his ear, hearing the most recent news. "But that's not possible." He stepped out of the car and looked at John, Mary, and Molly. He frowned.

John released Mary's hand and stepped towards Mycroft. "What's happened?"

* * *

In the jet, an attendant was holding a phone out to Sherlock. "It's your brother," he said.

Sherlock took the phone. "Mycroft?" he said into the phone.

"Hello, little brother. How is the exile going?"

"I've only been gone four minutes."

"Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson. As it turns out, you're needed."

"Oh, for God's sake. Make up your mind. Who needs me this time?"

Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh. "England."

* * *

Mary stared incredulously at John. "But he's dead. You told me he was dead, Moriarty."

"Absolutely. He blew his own brains out," John confirmed.

"So how can he be back?"

Molly turned toward her right, where Sherlock's plane was descending. "Well, if he is, he'd better wrap up warm," she said calmly. "There's an East Wind coming."

And despite all the hardship Molly had went through in the past months, she felt like it would be nothing compared to what was to come. She should have felt fear, terror, but instead she felt relief. Relief that Sherlock was coming back, relief that whatever it was they had to face, they would face it together.

"And that's how it will always be," Molly whispered to herself. "You and me, Sherlock. Together."

* * *

 **Well, that's the end of it. After over a year, the end of the story has come! How did you guys like it? And once again, I would like to thank each and every one of you who followed, favorited, or reviewed this story. Your words and encouragement are what got me motivated to write and continue the story. I truly cannot thank you enough. Peace out, and have a great day!**


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